What I Couldn't Find
by mermaiddrunk
Summary: Post-high school Rachel and Quinn run into each other in the most unlikely of places and with the help of a four year old and a few familiar faces, they find themselves on a rocky journey towards that elusive thing called "second chance".
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: What I Couldn't Find

**Author:** mermaiddrunk

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee, nor any of the characters. Don't make me say it again, it hurts. Although I do own the tiny human being in this story.

**Summary:** Post-high school Rachel and Quinn meet up by a happy coincidence and with the help of music, a four year old and a few familiar faces, they find themselves on a steady journey towards that elusive thing called a 'second chance."

A/N: _So I posted this on Tumblr about a week ago and after last night's Faberrific scene and glorious premiere, I decided to finally get my crap together and open an account. This is my first Faberry fic, so go easy. And reviews? Reviews are loved, snuggled and fed a steady diet of cookies and nutella, Don't hesitate to give them a good home :D_

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Quinn is halfway down the breakfast aisle, convinced that companies have begun just colouring cubes of sugar and started calling it cereal when she realises that the incessant babbling behind her has stopped. It's a sinking dread that begins in her belly and claws its way up to her throat until she feels as though she can't breathe. Her eyes immediately scan the aisle, but it's empty, save for an old woman who looks like she can barely hobble let alone abduct a child. He was there just a moment ago, Quinn thinks, as she races down, past the Apple Jacks and the Cap'n Crunch. Her eyes begin to water and she grits her teeth. Keep it together, Fabray she thinks savagely while she stares down the long passage way of bustling customers. He couldn't have gotten far she reasons as she runs down the next aisle. A thin blonde haired woman with a baby girl walks by and Quinn grabs her arm, startling the stranger.

"Excuse me, h-have you seen a little boy?" her voice is trembling. "He-he's four-years old. Blond hair past his chin."

The woman shakes her head sympathetically. "No, I'm sorry. You should ask them to make an announcement if you've lost your son."

"Oh he's-" she begins, then bites down on her bottom lip and just nods. She knows she should probably find the manager, but her heart is racing and all she really wants to do is scour every inch of the shopping centre for the missing toddler. She brushes past the woman and makes her way towards the dairy counter when she hears a very distinct voice. Her pounding heart suddenly feels as if it's about to slam through her ribcage.

"My favorwte is swawbewwy but mama says I can only have it-" Quinn's eyes zero in on the blonde toddler pointing towards the ice-cream counter. She's rushing towards him and scooping him up in her arms so quickly that she hardly notices the brunette woman who'd been crouching in front of the boy, listening to his tales of ice-cream preference. All she can focus on is the warm comforting weight of the squirming toddler in her arms. "Oh buddy, buddy, buddy. You scared me," she murmurs into the soft space between his neck and shoulder.

"You can't do that again," she says, pulling the boy away slightly, so that she's able to look into his big green eyes. "You can't just go running off. Anything could have happened to you. What if someone had taken you, huh?"

The boy has the sense to look apologetic, "Sowwy," he replies with a pout that washes away any anger she may have been feeling. "I was talkin' to the lady," he continues, pointing behind him.

Quinn's gaze finally falls past the boy to the woman who's standing rather awkwardly to one side, watching this reunion with wide-eyed wonder. The lecture that Quinn is about to give the toddler about 'Stranger Danger' flies out of her head as her gaze connects with the other woman. The woman who was definitely _not_ a stranger.

"Hello Quinn," Rachel Berry says, smiling in that way that makes you feel like you're the only person left on the planet.

Quinn has had a lot of unexpected things happen in her 26 years of existence. Joining a high school glee club, unplanned pregnancy, changing her major to art in her sophomore year of college, just to mention a few, but somehow running into Rachel Berry in a Wal-Mart in downtown Boston on a Thursday evening definitely makes her top five list.

"Rachel!" she adjusts the wriggling toddler on her hip and hopes to God she doesn't look as flustered as she feels. "Hi! Long time."

"Yes." Quinn doesn't miss the way Rachel's eyes dart between her face and the face of the tiny human currently attached to her side. "Eight years and two months to be exact," Rachel says. "I mean, that was the last time we saw each other. High school graduation. And the night of Noah Puckerman's graduation-" the brunette flushes and looks down. "That was," she clears her throat, "I mean the last time we saw each other was then. Which was eight years and two months ago. You look great," she finishes in one breath, waving a hand at a nonplussed Quinn.

"Er, thanks?" The blonde chews on her lower lip as she appraises the diva, unsure how to proceed. They hadn't left high school as the rivals they were in sophomore year, but they sure as hell weren't what you'd call friends. Well, except for the incident at Puck's party, which was a different level of awkward altogether. So for Quinn to be standing here, staring at the older Rachel Berry, a Rachel Berry who it seemed somewhere along the line to have learned how to take advantage of that firm little body of hers, and feeling nervous and…fluttery made little sense. Sure, Rachel was sort of famous now, what with her recent Tony win and her burgeoning film career, but to be honest, none of that really mattered to Quinn. So what if she went to watch Rachel's first Broadway performance twice when it first opened. So what if she made sure to PVR the Tony's because she was working the night it was on? That didn't mean that Rachel's star status affected her in the least. So right now, she can't really fathom why the short brunette is making her heart race.

"I wanna get down," the little boy in her arms wiggles about, breaking her out of her reverie.

"Whoa, kiddo. Uh-uh." Quinn hoists him up further and looks him dead in the eye. "You, buddy, are a danger to society. I can't have you running around."

"Whyyyy?" he whines, voicing the question fundamental to every four-year old's existence.

"Because a giraffe might come along and eat you," she counters simply, eliciting an amused giggle.

"Giwaffes can't eat people, silly!"

"Sure they can." Quinn says, squishing her finger against his nose. "In fact, little boys are their favourite snack after peanut butter, so you better not run off again."

The little boy nods, wide-eyed and unsure. "'Kay."

"So if I let you down and allow you to pick an ice-cream, you promise not to go anywhere?"

"I pwomise."

"Okay." She lowers him to the ground. "Hey," she says, before he toddles off. "Did you introduce yourself to Rachel?"

The blonde boy turns to Rachel and lifts his chin comically high. "'Sup?"

Rachel almost doubles over in laughter, but Quinn's eyes are wide in mortification.

"Who taught you to say that?" She shakes her head at the boy, "You know what, never mind, I think I have a pretty good idea." She wriggles her brows at the toddler. "C'mon, do it like we practiced, little man."

Puffing out his chest, the toddler walks up to Rachel who is just catching her breath and extends his chubby little hand. "Hi, I'm Max Fabway. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Rachel beams down at him and takes his hand in hers. "Well hello, Max. I'm Rachel. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He stares at her blankly for a moment before turning back to Quinn. "'Kay, I want ice-cweam now."

The blonde chuckles despite herself. "You go pick out one you want." She watches him move off next to her to where he can stare at the frozen desserts through the glass.

"You're amazing with him," Rachel says and Quinn's gaze snaps back to her. She feels suddenly exposed and vaguely embarrassed. She hadn't meant to show so much of herself in front of Rachel.

"Yeah, well," she shrugs self-consciously. "He's a pretty amazing kid." She watches Rachel's eyes cloud over with something she can't quite place.

"How did you come up with the name Max?" the diva finally asks.

Quinn frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Well is it short for something?"

Quinn scrunches up her brow like she has to think about it. "Um, Maximillian." She rolls her eyes slightly noticing Rachel's befuzzled look. "Yeah, I know pompous right? His mom named him after-"

"His mom?" Rachel looks more confused than ever.

Quinn nods. "Uh, yeah my-" Her eyes widen as she realises the source of Rachel's confusion. "Wait, you thought that I was-you thought Max was _mine_?"

Rachel looks from the blonde toddler, still eagerly eyeing the ice-cream to Quinn who is gaping at her like she's grown a second head. "Well Quinn, I think it's a pretty fair assumption to make considering the obvious physical resemblance and the fact that, well that you clearly hold a great deal of affection for the child. I suppose I just assumed that-"

"Berry!" Quinn cuts her off with a raised eyebrow. One so reminiscent of their high school days, that Rachel instantly shuts her mouth. Sensing the brunette's change in attitude, she quickly schools her face back into a more placid expression.

"Max is my sister's kid," Quinn says with a sigh. "He's my nephew."

Rachel's mouth makes a little 'oh' shape and Quinn can't help but notice the perfect fullness of her lips. She wonders what they'd-

The first few bars of some Broadway number that sounds vaguely familiar echoes around them and Rachel starts digging into her purse before pulling out her phone. "Hello? James, hi. Yeah, just stocking up." She gives Quinn an apologetic smile before taking a few steps away.

Rachel Berry at 26 is…something else, Quinn admits to herself, as she watches the shorter woman animatedly speak to whoever was on the other end of the line. Clad in a tight-fitting jeans and a simple grey sweater, the singer looked casual yet…Quinn cocks her head if as she's triying to place it. There's something different. She lacks the urgent, overzealous energy she had in high school. Instead it's replaced with confidence and self-assurance. It's like she's stopped standing on her tippy-toes desperately reaching out for the cookie jar she wanted because she's learnt to bake, Quinn muses. Success looks good on Rachel, she thinks as the brunette yells into the phone and paces, her left hand casually slipping into the back pocket of her jeans. Was Rachel always this hot, she wonders absently? Because something about the way she-_Whoa_. The blonde swallows. She is so not perving over Rachel Berry. It's PTSD, she decides. She's still traumatised after losing Max. They say that near-death experiences are often accompanied by feelings of sexual arousal. Something about the need to feel alive. Well, almost losing her baby nephew has obviously triggered some degenerate part of her brain and now she's feeling…frisky. That's all it is, Quinn tells herself.

Rachel walks towards her with a rueful half-smile. "Sorry about that. My director." She rolls her eyes. "He insists on shooting one of the scenes on a dairy farm despite my vehement protests that we could recreate the shot on a green screen with no additional costs to the budget and no need for the inhumane depiction of animal suffering."

"Oh you're here for a film?" Well that explains what she's doing in Massachusetts.

"I am," Rachel nods. "It seems shooting in Boston is cheaper than LA." She gives a little half shrug before looking down at her phone. "Quinn, as much as I've enjoyed catching up," Rachel looks up to catch her gaze and Quinn once again feels that peculiar fluttering of her heart as her eyes meet Rachel's chocolate-coloured ones. "And I really have. I fear I must be off. I've got an early call tomorrow and I need to get the appropriate amount of rest."

Quinn finds herself nodding slowly, not quite knowing what to say. What does one say to a person after eight years of distance before losing them again to the passage of time? 'Check ya later' doesn't quite seem appropriate.

"I-uh, I guess I'll see you around, Rachel." She tries to smile and hopes it doesn't come out as a grimace considering her lips feel rather like jelly.

"Bye Quinn." Rachel gives her a small wave before backing off. "Bye Max!" she calls out to the little boy whose hands are pressed up against the cold glass of the ice-cream counter.

"Okay bye!" he yells back, not once turning around and Quinn wonders if he even knows who he's saying goodbye to.

She watches as Rachel retreats and wants to call after her, wants to stop her, god knows why, she has no idea what more she could possibly say to Rachel Berry. But somehow, she feels like this is a chance, a chance to do what, she's not sure. But it's like that thing she remembers reading about once, in her third year college seminar, something about the inner voice and listening to what it was telling you. At the time, she tried her best to ignore it, because her inner voice was not telling her what she wanted to hear, but right now, right now it's practically screaming at her to stop Rachel. She's about to call out, when the diminutive brunette turns around.

Quinn practically holds her breath as Rachel approaches, a shaky smile gracing her face. "So um, I was thinking," Rachel looks past Quinn, or she would have, if she was tall enough, so she just ends up kind of staring at the taller girl's chest.

"You were thinking? Wow, that's a feat," Quinn raises a brow teasingly causing Rachel to roll her eyes.

"I was _thinking,_" she enunciates, looking up at Quinn with a smirk. "That you're sort of the only person I know in Boston, other than my cast and crew and well, they can be…tiresome," she explains. "So I thought that perhaps we could, well you and I, at least you could-"

"Spit it out, Berry." Quinn looks at her expectantly.

"I thought maybe we could hang out sometime. You know, when I'm not filming and you're free. I mean, you don't have to. I know we were never close really. I mean there was that one time, but that was just, I mean I never really thought it meant any-"

"Rachel-" Quinn cuts her off before she can go any further. She can practically feel the blood rising up her cheeks as Rachel threatens to discuss one of the most regrettable moments of her life. "That would be great," she says with a smile. "Why don't you give me your number and we can arrange something?"

Rachel beams and Quinn suddenly wonders if this is such a good idea after all. They exchange numbers and then she's gone, leaving Quinn standing under florescent lights in the middle of the dairy section. A tug on her skirt has her looking down and she ruffles her fingers through Max's tousled blonde hair.

"Can we go now?" he asks in a tired voice that suggests it's time for his nap.

"Yeah," Quinn says, picking him up and snuggling him for a moment. "Hey, did you pick a flavour?"

"Yup," the boy says decisively. "I want Bewwy!"

For some unfathomable reason, this makes Quinn dissolve into a fit of giggles.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Firstly, THANK YOU FOR THE AWESOME REVIEWS! I licked them and they tasted goood.

Aaaaaanyway, here's chapter two. Hope you enjoy.

Comments, criticism, suggestions are welcome. :D

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><p><strong>Chapter Two:<strong>

She's been sitting outside the apartment for almost fourteen-Rachel checks her watch- sixteen minutes, as rain pounds into the window of her rented Prius, causing the car to feel like her only safe haven against the outside world. She checks her watch again. This is ridiculous, she knows it's ridiculous, but the logical, rational part of her brain seems disconnected from her limbs, which currently feel weighed down by something akin to stage fright. Of course, Rachel assures herself, she hasn't ever succumbed to stage fright. The panic-attack she had before going on stage after finding out that a certain Ms Streisand would be sitting in the front row during her last performance of the stage adaptation of _The Prince of Tides _hardly counts as stage fright in Rachel's opinion. So the fact that her heart is racing, her palms feel sweaty and her skin is all tingly makes absolutely no sense. After all, she's just going in to meet up with Quinn Fabray. The same Quinn Fabray who she bumped into at the store last week. The same Quinn Fabray who called her up and suggested she come over so they could "catch up". The same Quinn Fabray who caused a torrent of tumultuous emotions within her during high school. The same Quinn Fabray who could rip her to shreds with that sharp tongue one moment, then melt her insides with those honeyed irises the next. The same Quinn Fabray who it seemed had grown up to become even more – Rachel shakes her head. _What is she doing? _She promised herself she wouldn't make a thing out of this. A _thing_ is the last thing she needs. But seeing Quinn after all this time…it threw her for a loop.

What is the ex-cheerleader even doing in Boston? Rachel wonders for the hundredth time since their fateful Wal-Mart encounter. Last she heard from Kurt, who is the only McKinley member she sees on a regular basis, Quinn was supposed to be in LA, doing some economics degree. Granted that was, like five years ago and she hadn't really heard anything else about the girl since, but she'd always assumed that the blonde made it big as some hot shot lawyer or something. For some reason, whenever she'd pictured Quinn over the years, not, Rachel quickly corrects herself, that she'd spent a great deal of time imagining her, she was always in pencil skirts and holding a briefcase. Rachel imagined her hair, those blonde, sun-kissed strands would have grown out and was now worn in a tight, professional bun. She always imagined her hard, somehow untouchable. It was easier to imagine her far away and…unavailable. So she was more than a little surprised when she ran into the 26-year old Quinn Fabray in downtown Boston, looking nothing like the ice-queen corporate mogul Rachel had pictured. Instead of a tightly coiffed hairstyle, her hair had hung loosely, almost messily just brushing her shoulders. There was no pencil skirt or briefcase, but a colourful floral skirt and a faded-t-shirt that looked as if it was covered in paint splatters. There was a bit of senior year Quinn in her, Rachel thinks suddenly, remembering the pink-hair period, except there was nothing sullen or rebellious about the young woman she met in the Wal-Mart. No, she was…confident, casual and more at ease that Rachel had ever seen her.

And that, Rachel acknowledges, that is what scares the hell out of her.

She's officially been sitting in the car for twenty-one minutes when her cellphone rings, startling her out of her labyrinthine thoughts.

"Hello?" she squeaks, bringing it up to her ear without checking the caller ID.

"Rachel?" It's Quinn's voice. Slightly husky with trepidation. "Hi, I was just wondering if you got lost. I mean, it's raining pretty bad out, I could always come and pick you up if you want?"

Rachel notices how Quinn doesn't suggest they cancel and instead is willing to brave the elements to come and get her. It makes her feel doubly stupid for sitting outside the apartment for the last twenty minutes.

"Uh, no, no that's alright," Rachel fumbles slightly. "I'm just pulling up actually." She wonders if she should turn the car on and off again for sound effects or if that would be too obvious.

"Okay, great," Quinn sounds relived. "It's number 34. Just ring the buzzer and I'll let you in."

"Perfect," Rachel says on breath as Quinn hangs up. Well, she sighs and reaches back for her bright yellow umbrella. It's now or never.

...

Her hand hovers above the door to knock when it flies open and she's engulfed in a pair of arms. Strong arms. Manly arms. Tattooed arms. Arms that are definitely _not _Quinn's.

"Wha-I?" she manages before she's lowered to the ground and finds herself staring up at the grown-up, yet devilishly gorgeous face of Noah Puckerman.

"What's up my Jewish-American Princess?" he says, offering her his patented smirk.

"Noah?"

"The one and only," he says, patting his chest, cave-man style. He's still grinning down at her shocked face when a high pitched squeal breaks through the air behind them.

"Puuuuuuuuuck!" Max comes whizzing into frame and lunges himself at Puck's huge calf. He really has bulked up considerably, Rachel thinks absently as she watches the older Noah Puckerman lift the toddler above his head, making the little boy scream with glee. On his biceps, Rachel makes out a myriad of tattoos, the most obvious being the beautifully sketched face of a little girl of about six. It's a face Rachel's seen on Christmases and various other holidays spent with Shelby since graduating.

"You need to be in bed, little man," Puck says, thowing Max up in the air before catching him again.

"The aliens are gonna eeeeeeeeat meeeeeee!" Rachel watches with some amusement as the little boy squirms in Puck's huge arms.

"If you don't go to bed right now, Quinn's gonna eat you!" Puck replies, setting the little boy down. This seems to have the desired effect and Max, still rather hyper, bolts off.

Puck turns his attention back to Rachel with a stupid grin. "The kid's a living can of Red Bull."

Rachel, still feeling rather overwhelmed, can't help but return his grin. "I see so." She stands awkwardly against the doorframe when a more familiar voice sounds out behind the man in front of her.

"God, Puck, how many times do I have to tell you, when people knock on the door, we invite them inside." Quinn forcefully pushes Puck out of the way and reaches for Rachel's hand, all but dragging her into the warm living room.

"I'm sorry," Puck says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I was distracted by the star in our midst." He wiggles his eyebrows at Rachel, making it impossible for her to keep a straight face and she realises how much she's missed his inane, lewd persona.

"I'm sorry about him," Quinn says, motioning her head towards Puck. She reaches out for Rachel's coat and hangs it on a rack behind the door. "I usually lock him up when there's company, but he broke out of his chains."

Puck throws her an amused look. "You know you can't keep me chained down, baby."

"Oh my gooood," Quinn groans, rubbing her hand over her face before directing a look of apology towards Rachel.

Rachel's eyes dart between her two ex-class mates. Their easy banter, their obvious chemistry, the fact they are, well…cohabitating. She'd never have guessed that after the baby-gate scandal they would actually get together again. Sure, by senior year, they were friendly, but everyone in the glee club was. So somehow, seeing Quinn and Puck together after all this time is really…shocking. Yeah, shocking, she thinks. That's why her stomach's all up in knots. That's why her heart feels like it's dropped to the pit of her stomach. It's just shock.

"Well," Rachel clears her throat and both pairs of eyes turn to her. "I must say, it's wonderful to see you again, Noah. You're looking very…" she surveys his sleeve of tattoos, his off-white vest, his shaven head… "grown-up." she says, deciding on the word. "And your place…" Rachel makes a show of looking around the apartment. It's lined with bright colours. Coral blues, crimsons, yellows. There's an easel in one corner, two guitars in another. Rachel thinks it looks like something off the set of _Rent_. A bohemian paradise. She loves it. "Your place is spectacular," she breathes honestly.

"Yeah, well Quinn does all the homey stuff," Puck says, glancing at the blonde, who is staring at Rachel with hopeful eyes, apparently pleased that she approves of the décor. "I just pay the rent."

Quinn actually snorts. "Yeah, about that. Your half is due for this month. I have no hesitation about kicking you out on your ass."

"I'll pay you in fudge-lickers," Puck says with a face that could arouse a nun. And Rachel's eyes shoot to Quinn, as she wonders what kind of sexual innuendo Puck just made.

Quinn's eyes widen. "Not fair, Puckerman. You know I can't resist those."

"I've yet to meet a woman who can," Puck replies smoothly and Rachel feels like she's intruding on some private moment.

"QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNN!" The moment is suddenly shattered by Max's voice coming from the back. "The aliens are in the bathwoooooom! I can hear them!"

Quinn shoots a dark glare at Puck. "That is the last time I let you pick the movie!" she hisses before stalking off.

"What was that about?" Rachel asks as Puck walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. "Uh," he turns back to her, "I sorta let the shrimp watch _Aliens_ with me last night while Quinn was at work." He has the sense to look sheepish. "Guess he didn't like it."

Rachel's brow scrunches up. "Noah, that film is highly inappropriate for a four-year old, not to mention, the violence and the-"

The rest of her words are muffled as she finds her face squished against the front of Puck's chest. "I missed you, Berry," Puck says easily, before letting her go and thrusting a beer in her hands.

Rachel breaks into a grin, disarmed by his sincere show of affection. "I missed you too, Noah." So what if he was in a relationship with Quinn, she thinks. It's good that they've found each other. He's obviously grown-up a lot, as has Quinn. She should be happy for them…for her friends. And yet…

She takes a sip from her beer and grimaces. It's been a while since her college days and even then she was more of a whiskey and lime sorta girl. "So," she begins, settling on the kitchen stool while Puck stirs whatever Quinn had been busy with on the stove. It's strange, she muses, seeing Noah Puckerman, resident badass of McKinley High looking so…domesticated. He adds a pinch of salt and sticks his pinky finger in to have a taste.

"Aw, you're gonna love this," he says, sucking on his finger. "Quinn makes the best sun-dried tomato sauce."

Rachel looks down at her hands for a moment then back at the housebroken Puck before saying, "So, um, how long have you and Quinn been together?"

He looks at her with a curious expression. "You mean how long have we lived together?" Rachel nods, assuming their steady relationship started once they moved in together.

"Uh," he runs his hand over his shaven head. He looks good without the Mohawk, she thinks absently. "About two years now."

Two years. She feels something close up inside her chest. Two years is a long time.

"Well I'm really happy for you, Noah," she says, hating that the smile on her face feels fake, like the kind she gives at press interviews after a hundred flickering lights have gone off in her face.

"Um…thanks?" he sounds confused. "Anyway, once Q's done with the munchkin, I'm gonna bounce."

She's surprised. "You're not staying for dinner?"

"Nah," he takes a swig from his beer. "Got band-practice" he says, and tilts his head towards the guitars in the corner of the room. "I'll probably stay over at Van's, so you know, feel free go wild," he raises his eyebrows suggestively, except Rachel has no clue what he's implying.

"Who's Van and why would I go wild?" she asks simply.

"Vanessa." Puck lifts the lid of the saucepan and takes a hearty sniff. "Q, I'm taking your sauce off!" he yells and a faint, "Kay!" comes from the bedroom.

"Who is Vanessa?" Rachel presses on. The sauce smells amazing and her stomach's rumbling, but right now, she's more interested in why Puck thinks she'll 'go wild'.

"Van's my girlfriend," Puck says, leaning on the counter. "She's lead singer in the band."

Rachel's mouth literally drops open. "Your-you have a-wait." She takes a breath. "So you and Quinn aren't together?"

Puck's eyes almost bulge out of his head before he breaks into a loud laugh. "Me and Q? Jesus, Berry what the hell are you smoking? That ship sailed so very, very long ago, it's like in Tahiti by now." He laughs again at Rachel's confused expression. "Besides," he continues, his lips curving into a tiny smile, "Quinn's capital _G _g-"

"Hey!" Quinn's voice startles both of them and Rachel actually jumps.

Puck turns to her and his smile broadens. "You put him down alright?"

"No thanks to you," Quinn retorts with a raised eyebrow. She nods towards Rachel. "You don't have to drink that," she says with slight amusement as Rachel nurses her mostly full beer. "There's wine in the cupboard that I was planning on opening. We're not all Neanderthals here."

Puck barks out a laugh. "Says the person who insisted we play beer pong at her birthday last year."

Quinn glares at him, "I was drunk." She turns to Rachel, who watches her with an amused expression, "I was drunk," she says again, almost petulantly causing Rachel to laugh.

She's suddenly light-headed and she's not sure why. It can't have anything to do with the fact that Puck's just confirmed that he and Quinn aren't dating. It certainly hasn't got anything to do with the fact that Quinn's sitting next to her with messy hair, a pair of ripped jeans, a baggy sweater and bare feet, looking sort of like a beautiful bohemian hobo. And she's positive that it has nothing to do that she's about to spend the next few hours with said beautiful bohemian hobo. So Rachel, determined not to overthink anything, takes a hearty sip of her beer and eases into her seat. This is going to be an interesting evening.

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><p>.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay, sooo this is a slightly longer chapter and it really starts getting plotty (yes, I made that word up, no, I have no shame) in this one, so hopefully you'll have something to sink your teeth into. Thank you guys for all your awesome responses to the last two chapters. I'm trying my best to update regularly. Since this is my first Faberry fic, I'm really hoping I've got the characterisation down. Tell me what you think.

Enjoy :)

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Three<span>**

Quinn stares down at her sleeping nephew and her face melts into a smile. He lies curled up on his side, clutching the fluffy green T-Rex she'd bought him the first day he was unceremoniously dropped off outside her door. She remembers how her sister had called her that morning in tears, which, in itself was an anomaly since Frannie had barely spoken to her since college. Quinn knew that her sister had married some hot-shot attorney and that they were living the high-life in Chicago. She knew they had a son, her mom had pictures of Max all over the house. But since Quinn rarely showed up to family gatherings and no-one other than Judy made an effort to contact her, Quinn's relationship with her sister was distant, to put it mildly. So when Frannie had phoned, in tears and desperate, Quinn had jumped at the opportunity to help, because, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she missed her sister. The girl who had taught her how to braid her hair, how to shave her legs, how to apply mascara without clumping up her eyelashes. The problem was, that somewhere along the line, Quinn stopped needing that kind of advice and Frannie didn't know how to relate to her anymore. Not this artsy, alternative Quinn who wanted a world bigger than the one Russell Fabray offered his daughters.

Except, the Fannie that stood at Quinn's door that chilly morning all those weeks ago was no-one she recognised. Her older sister's platinum blonde hair was scraggly and limp, her clothes, though obviously expensive, fell from her thin frame like rags and her eyes, the same colour as their mothers' were hidden behind dark shades despite the fact that it was barely 9am and the sun was hidden behind thick storm clouds. Quinn remembers looking at her sister with shock before her gaze fell down onto the face of the little boy, tightly clutching his mother's hand.

"I need you to take him," Frannie had said, without any preamble as she shuffled the little boy into the apartment.

Quinn had barely managed to utter her surprise when her sister dumped a large suitcase on her couch and said, "All his things are in there. I've left a list and money for everything he'll need for the next few weeks."

"Weeks?" Quinn squeaked looking down at the little boy who seemed just as confused as she was.

"There's a play group about two blocks from here," Frannie continued. "I've already made arrangements for him to attend. It's all in the letter." Quinn had watched in utter bewilderment as her older sister knelt down in front of the little boy. "Mommy's going away for a little while, okay sweetheart? But your Auntie Quinn will take real good care of you." Frannie finally removed her glasses to look up at Quinn. A large purple bruise framed her left eye.

"Oh, god, Frannie-" Quinn began. "What-"

"He doesn't like the dark," Frannie said softly, her face unreadable and Quinn felt herself trembling. "So he needs to sleep with a night light on."

"Mommy, I don't want you to go." The little boy's voice was small and bordering on tears.

Quinn watched her sister place a soft kiss on the toddler's blonde head. "You be good, okay, honey. And I'll be back before you know it. I love you." And then, without a second glace, she turned and walked out of the apartment, leaving Quinn staring at the tearful toddler.

It took her a few seconds before she was able to look away from him and race down the hallway after her sister. Luckily, she caught up to Frannie just before the older woman got onto the elevator. Without thinking, Quinn had grabbed her arm to hold her back and Frannie yelped and flinched, which caused Quinn's stomach to drop.

"Is he hurting you?" Quinn asked, her voice wavering as she forced herself to look her big sister in the eye.

Frannie's gaze darted past her. "Quinnie, you don't understand-"

Quinn took a harsh breath, "Dammit, Francine, you just dropped your kid in my lap and were about to take off. Make me understand!"

Frannie swallowed and slowly dragged her eyes back to Quinn, "Robert's…he's powerful," she breathed. "And he, he says that if I leave him, he'll take Max."

Quinn passed a hand over her face. "God, have you gone to the police?"

Frannie nodded and bit her lip, tears welling up. "I just—I need to sort out the divorce. I have a lawyer. He's a friend…I can trust him. But if Robert finds me-" she takes a stilted breath. "I just want Max to be safe."

Quinn swallowed back her own tears. "Then stay with me. He needs you, Frannie. You're his mom."

She nodded as tears fell freely down her face, "Yeah, I know. I know, Quinnie. But I can't take the risk that Robert might find me… and him. It's just…" she bit her lip and looked past Quinn to the apartment where she had left her son, "It's just temporary, okay? I couldn't leave him with mom because Robert knows about her; it's the first place he'll go. But Max is safe with you. I know you'll take good care of him."

Quinn wiped at her cheeks. "W-will you call me? When you're safe? Please, call me."

Frannie nodded and pulled her little sister into a hug. "Thank you."

Quinn's heart pounds as she remembers the look on her sister's face before she got into the elevator. An odd mixture of relief and hopelessness. Quinn couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so…helpless. When she had gone back to the apartment, she found Max with a face full of Cheese Poofs, watching a half-naked Puck playing Resident Evil: 3017 and she knew, somehow, they'd be okay.

That was six-weeks ago, Quinn thinks, barely able to believe that this tiny little creature who she's come to love beyond belief has only been in her life for six weeks. She gently runs her fingers through his soft blonde curls and places a gentle kiss on his cheek. Making sure to leave the night-light on, Quinn exits the room with one last look at her nephew.

When she gets to the kitchen, Puck is in mid-sentence, with a smirk on his face that can mean absolutely no good, while Rachel stares up at him apparently engrossed. "Hey," she says, breaking them out of whatever they were into.

Quinn finds it cute how Rachel practically jumps in her seat, like a little kid who's been caught red-handed. Her gaze darts to Puck who asks about Max. She gives him a snarky reply, but he knows she's grateful for everything he's done. It's weird sometimes, playing house with the father of her child, a child they never got to raise. She sees how good he is with Max, and sometimes, Quinn can't help but wonder. She knows it would never have worked. They were too young, Puck was _definitely _too young, and of course there's the whole issue of Puck not exactly being…her type, but sometimes, when Max falls asleep in her arms and there's no-one around to hear her thoughts, Quinn can't help but wonder.

She watches at Puck flexes his biceps at Rachel (his favourite pastime), showing off his great number of tattoos while the other girl alternates between rolling her eyes and giggling and Quinn feels something inside of her quiver. It's as if she's on the precipice of something though she's not quite sure what. Or maybe she is and she's just not willing to admit it. Either way, she's not going to deny that she likes the fact that Rachel Berry is here, in her apartment, about to sit down for dinner. She called the actress up a few days ago and suggested that they meet at her place. She didn't want it to sound too datey, but there wasn't much she could do in the evenings with Max around. To her relief and surprise, Rachel immediately agreed.

It's-nice having a friend from before, Quinn muses as she uncorks a bottle of Pinotage while half-listening to Puck grill Rachel about details of Hollywood's young and gorgeous. Having Puck around is great, don't get her wrong. They had over the last two years become a sort of dysfunctional family, yet somehow it was better than any family she'd ever known. But having Rachel around, having Rachel _here_ is different. She's a reminder of the girl Quinn used to be, the dreams, the hopes, the feelings Quinn used to have. After high school she had tried so hard to forget that confused, wayward teenager and was determined to reinvent herself yet again. What happened instead was that Quinn found an easel and a paintbrush and then, eventually, she found herself. Somehow, having Rachel Berry sit in her apartment, doesn't unsettle her with thoughts of the past, it only makes her feel more…together. As if all the pieces of Quinn are finally reconnecting because Rachel's seen them all. It's strange, she thinks, how this one girl has come to represent so much.

She wants to roll her eyes at her existential reflection. She'd probably feel the same if she ran into Mercedes or Mike at Wal-Mart.

She pulls the cork out with a muted _pop, _which Puck takes as his cue to leave.

"I'm sorry to love you and leave you, but I gotta get moving." Puck turns to Quinn. "Can I tell Bas you're playing on Friday?"

Quinn nods. "Yeah, I got off early. So it should be good."

"Awesome," he says, sling the guitar case over his shoulder. "Don't keep her up too late, Q." He murmurs, earning a death-glare from Quinn. Puck winks at Rachel before yanking an apple out the fruit bowl and making his way out of the apartment.

Despite the fact that Rachel has been there for nearly half-an hour and has very clearly acclimatised thanks to Puck and his never-ending charm, the apartment falls silent once it's just the two of them. Their buffer has left and now it's just Rachel and Quinn and everything in between.

Quinn watches as Rachel's eyes dart around the apartment, falling for a moment on a picture on the mantle. A framed photograph of a nine-year old girl with light brown hair and a charming grin. Her hazel eyes are alight with mischief and curiosity that makes her look like the perfect combination of her parents, her biological parents at least.

"Shelby sent that last year," Quinn comments, as Rachel's gaze deconstructs the photograph. "It was just before they moved to New York."

Rachel nods and turns to face Quinn, her eyes shining. "Yeah, I remember."

Quinn looks at her sharply and Rachel grapples for an explanation. "I-uh, I met her a couple of times." She bites her bottom lips almost nervously, "After Shelby and I–reconnected in senior year, we sort of saw more of each other. You know, holidays and such."

Quinn looks down. It's hard to think that Rachel's seen more of Beth than she has. Shelby's been good with keeping her and Puck informed and part of Beth's life, but Rachel got to be part of the family, she got to feel like she belonged. "That's great," Quinn says, and looks up again, her face impassive. She doesn't want to talk about Beth now. Least of all to Rachel. "So, you hungry?"

The brunette seems to have gotten the hint, because she quickly nods and puts on her best show smile. "Starving."

They sit on cushions at the low table in the lounge/dining room. The apartment isn't large, but it's cosy. Rachel wastes no time in putting a forkful of pasta in her mouth. The loud moan she emits makes Quinn grin.

"I take it you approve?"

Rachel brings her fingers to her lips in a self-conscious gesture, but nods through a smile. "This is amazing, Quinn," she says once she finally swallows. And Quinn's gaze flickers to Rachel's mouth, where a tiny bit of sauce is lingering on her top lip.

"Thanks," she says before stuffing her own mouth with pasta, because that option seems a lot better than the one she just had in mind.

They eat in silence punctuated mostly by Rachel's approving moans and occasional small talk. It's only when Quinn notices Rachel's half-dazed expression that she really looks at the girl sitting opposite her. "What?" she asks, as Rachel stares past her, fork forgotten in her hand.

"That painting," Rachel breathes, seemingly transfixed by the large canvas on the wall behind Quinn. She turns her head to look at the painting that has Rachel so captivated and sort of waves her hand in dismissal.

"Oh, yeah, that. I did it in my final year."

Rachel's eyes bolt back to Quinn's, those chocolaty swirls suddenly piercing hazel ones. "_You_ did that?" she asks agape.

If Quinn weren't so amused by Rachel's astonishment, she'd feel mildly offended. "Yeah," she confirms with a quick nod and looks back to the painting to try and see what has Rachel so enamoured.

The piece itself is bold and almost startling with its vivid colours. A deep sea blue dominates most of the canvas, broken by dashes yellow and a hint of cherry-red and violet. The colours sweep in broad strokes towards the centre of the image, creating a starburst that seems to fly out at you as if it's alive. At least, that's what her supervisor said when she presented him with the piece. Quinn had always been inspired by Chagall's powerful movement within his work and hoped to capture something similar with her own. She's not sure if she's accomplished it, but by the way Rachel's staring at the painting, she hopes she's come close.

"Quinn, it's spectacular," the brunette whispers at if she was staring up at the Sistine Chapel. "You're amazingly gifted," Rachel continues, finally dragging her gaze back to the blonde.

Quinn's been complimented on her work before. The fact that she's the youngest assistant director at Boston's Modern Art Gallery stands as a testament to her credentials. Yet, somehow, that breathy compliment coming out of Rachel Berry lips has her all ties up in knots. She hopes she's not blushing.

"Thank you," Quinn says shortly, not trusting herself to say much more.

"So, why did you decide on art?" Rachel asks, finally turning her attention back to her meal. "I mean, you're obviously talented, but I don't remember you showing any affinity for it in high-school, other than the detailed, and I must admit, rather well shaded sketches on the bathroom walls."

Now Quinn knows her cheeks are coloured pink. "Yeeah, about that, Rach-"

Rachel holds up her hand. "Water under the bridge," she says firmly and stares at Quinn until the blonde girl nods in acquiescence. "So tell me, how did you find your calling?"

Quinn sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. She really needs to get it trimmed, she thinks absently. The art question is so intimately tied up in other…questions, that Quinn's not quite sure she's ready to divulge everything, so she tries to cut and paste her answers.

"I guess," Quinn begins as Rachel now pushes her plate to one side, intent on giving Quinn her full attention. "By the end of my first year I was bored to death," Quinn says honestly. "I mean, all those numbers and stats were driving me insane, you know? And uh, I guess I realised that I wanted something…more." Rachel nods as if empathising.

"It's funny," Quinn pushes her fingers through her hair again; it's become sort of a nervous habit. "I remember thinking of you."

Rachel bites down on her lip. "Me?" And Quinn nods shyly.

"Yeah, I remember thinking about how badly you wanted Broadway, you know? Like it was bigger than anything else in your life, a feeling, a-a passion that no-one else could touch. I think-I wanted that." She watches Rachel suck in a breath before smiling.

"I wanted that for you too, Quinn."

She returns the smile before saying," Yeah, well then I met someone who, uh…well they were taking Fine Art at the Academy of Art in San Francisco, so I enrolled the next year. And the rest as they say-" she shrugs her shoulders.

Rachel's staring at her with this sort of dazed, goofy expression that Quinn can't quite read. "You found your passion," she finally says, her eyes flickering back to the painting. "So how did you end up in Boston? I mean San Francisco is a rather long move."

"I got a job and I took it," Quinn says more curtly than she intended, but the reasons for her move are not what she wants to be talking to Rachel about right now. "So what about you?" Quinn tries to pull herself back. God, what is it about this girl that has her so twisted up inside?

Rachel gives her a coy smile. "I did alright for myself." And Quinn chuckles.

"Says Miss I've just won a Tony and was just nominated for my second Globe Globe?"

Rachel breaks into a wide grin, "I'm trying this new thing called 'modesty'" she says softly.

"How's that working for you?" Quinn asks with amusement and Rachel huffs,

"It's not as easy as you'd expect."

Quinn's smile softens as she stares at the girl in front of her. How did never notice Rachel's ability to light up an entire room before?

"Well, I'd say you've earned bragging rights, Rachel," Quinn says gently. "I'm kinda, um proud of you," she continues, hoping it's not too much. But Rachel's looking at her with stars in her eyes and Quinn thinks maybe it's just enough. "You know, for going after you dreams and getting everything you want."

"I don't have everything I want," Rachel murmurs so softly, that Quinn wonders if she even heard it at all. But the pounding of her heart seems to suggest she did.

Quinn licks her lips unconsciously. She needs to get Puck to fix the heat, she thinks suddenly. It's way too hot in here.

"What, uh, what more do you want?" Quinn asks, wondering when her voice became that low.

Rachel shrugs a shoulder a little too casually, Quinn thinks. "Everything," the brunette says almost timidly.

Quinn watches her face carefully. She's not flirting, Quinn tells herself. There's no way Rachel Berry is flirting with her. The tiny diva has always been overly intense; she's just being…Rachel. Except there's something about the way Rachel's warm gaze seems to unravel her that makes Quinn wonder—Suddenly Rachel's voice, or a recorded version of her voice permeates the apartment in a jumble of words that Quinn suddenly recognises as the opening of "No Good Deed", from _Wicked_. Leave it to Rachel Berry to have her own voice as a ringtone.

Quinn watches as she reaches into her pocket to retrieve her cell-phone. "It's okay," Quinn says, as the diva shoots her an apologetic glance. "I'll clear up."

Quinn is strangely grateful for the moment to clear her head. It's amazing how quickly she gets sucked into that whirlwind of emotions whenever Rachel's around. It's always been this way, whether she was hurling abuse at the brunette for stealing her boyfriend or trying to convince her that what happened at Puck's party was a mistake, Rachel had the uncanny ability to make Quinn _feel_.

She dumps the dishes in the sink unceremoniously and refills their wine glasses. By the time she sits back down, Rachel's clinging on to her phone and talking in a hushed voice that has Quinn doubtful that she's talking to her director again. When Rachel finally sits down, there's a shaky smile on her face and Quinn can't help but ask, "Is everything okay?"

Rachel nods without meeting her eyes and takes a large sip of her wine. "That was David," she says, her gaze finally falling on Quinn's. "My uh, fiancé."

It takes everything in Quinn's power not to react. She doesn't even know why she wants to react. God, Rachel's been back in her life for the total of three hours. Three hours after eight years. She has no reason to expect anything from the girl, especially after high school and _everything._ She's here to shoot a movie and then she's back to whatever bedazzled life she lives in New York, while Quinn stays here and does whatever the hell she'd been doing before she saw Rachel Berry in a Wal-Mart. So the fact that she feels like she's been punched in the gut because of three stupid syllables coming out of Rachel's mouth annoys the hell out of her.

So, Quinn forces herself to look interested and she hopes she pulls it off, because right now, she's worried she's got on Finn's constipated face. "David Pierce? The actor?"

Rachel hums in acknowledgement and takes another sip of her wine. "That's the one."

"I thought that was just a rumour," Quinn says. "I mean, last week Giuliana Rancic said you were dating that guy from the new Star Wars movie."

Rachel burst out in laughter. "Lloyd McKee? Oh no, he's totally gay. A sweetheart, but gay."

Quinn shifts uncomfortably. "So, you and David Pierce?"

Rachel kind of rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "Well, I call him just David. But yes, we've been going out for almost eighteen months."

"And you're getting married?"

Rachel gives another non-committal hum and Quinn clears her throat. "Well," she raises her wine glass, wondering if it looks suspicious that she's so _like totally on-board_ with this, "To you and 'just' David." She raises her brows when Rachel fails to pick up her glass.

"I've got a better one," the actress says softly. "To old friends," she murmurs, clinking her glass against Quinn's.

And Quinn finds herself smiling before bringing the glass to her lips. "To old friends."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

She's upside down, suspended thirty feet in the air as Kevin, their stunt co-ordinator pulls on her harness, securing it before the next shot. Somehow, at this angle, the world makes more sense Rachel thinks as the blood rushes to her head. The past few days have been a strange upside-down experience, her thoughts and emotions zipping all over the place. She wants to blame it on home-sickness. She sometimes gets like this when she's away on location for too long, but she's only been on the shoot for two-and-a-half weeks, so that hardly makes sense.

"Okay, places!" James, yells from below and Rachel clears her mind, slipping effortlessly into the psyche of her character.

Eight more takes and a splitting headache later, Rachel is lowered to the ground as the shoot wraps for the day.

"It's looking good," James mentions as she comes up next to him to observe the last few shots from the little screen beside him. "You've got the falling motion down just right."

She smiles, her face lighting up at the always welcome praise. "Well, daily Pilates does help with flexibility." She glances at him again, "Have you sorted out the location for the fight-scene?"

He nods absently, "Yeah, Marcus is on it." Rachel's eyes flit back to the screen as she watches repeats of herself being dangled from the harness. The blue background will later be replaced by a cityscape and it will look as if she's falling from a bridge, attempting suicide. It isn't often that she's this invested in the background workings of a film, but this is a small-budget indie picture and it works best when everyone's a team. She'll save her ego for the big Bruckheimer productions.

Once she's satisfied with the footage, she heads back to her little trailer. It's tiny compared to the luxury suites she's stayed in, but at least the production costs allowed them to rent a decent guest house for the duration of the shoot. She didn't make a habit of taking such small projects, but the script, the story of a young woman, battling with her sexuality and identity in a small, conservative town, spoke to Rachel and she couldn't turn it down. The words were raw and powerful and the character moved her. That and the fact that she and James had attended NYADA together meant that she accepted without hesitation.

The minute she's in the privacy of her trailer, she kicks off her pumps, swallows two Advil and falls into the surprisingly comfy sofa. An hour later she wakes up to find the sun has partially set and she's been drooling on the armrest of said surprisingly comfy sofa. Wiping her hand against her mouth with a tinge of embarrassment, despite the fact that there's no-one around to see her, Rachel reaches for her phone to check the time.

17:03 and three missed calls.

Two of the numbers cause her heartbeat to escalate. The third is unknown. She presses play and hears Quinn's honeyed voice come through the speaker:

_Hey Rachel, it's Quinn. Hope you're okay. I had a really great time on Tuesday. Sorry again about the dessert. Although you did distract me with your tales of the big city, so I still think you're to blame for the burnt brownies. Anyway, um, Puck's band is playing a gig on Friday night and he wanted- well we both thought, at least I figured since you still don't know the city all that well, you should come. It's nothing fancy. So I'll a text you the directions. If you decide to come. I mean, I'll text you anyway and you can decide. Or whatever. Okay, so I'll see you on Friday. Maybe. Oh, and if you want, you can bring someone. Or not, whatever. Anyway, uh…bye._

She's cut off by a harsh beeping sound and Rachel fights the urge to immediately call back just to hear that voice. It's funny, Rachel thinks, how Quinn Fabray who single-handedly ruled the school for so many years and then, even after her fall from grace managed to put the fear of God in people's hearts, has turned into this fumbling, adorkable hipster who seems even more clumsy when Rachel's around. It's something she finds incredibly endearing. Like she's getting to see the real Quinn. A Quinn that was hiding underneath all those layers of Mac concealer and later pink dye. A Quinn she always suspected was there, but very rarely glimpsed. That low, breathy voice is still playing in a loop through her head when the next message comes through.

_Hey baby. I've been thinking about you. So I ran into Debbie at the gym this morning and apparently she heard from Joyce's agent that FOX is talking about a David E. Kelly action pilot for the fall. You know how I've been thinking about breaking into TV, right? Anyway, I'm going down to LA this weekend to talk to Stan. I hope you're not too lonely over there. Lola misses her mommy. Don't you, girl? Tell mommy you miss her. Tell mommy you-Yeah, she rolled over and walked away. Anyway, call me when you're done filming. Love you, babe._

Guilt, Rachel has learnt over the years, is an interesting, amorphous thing. It doesn't always attack head on and knock you senseless. Sometimes, it's subtle, sneaky and laced with self-deception. It's the latter kind that makes its way around her heart as she listens to her fiancé's voice. She smiles into the phone as she warms to David's lazy, Californian accent. She imagines him in her apartment, which he had unofficially moved into two months prior, probably standing in a shorts and t-shirt, despite the fact that it would be considerably chilly in New York City. You can take the boy out of Venice Beach, she thinks wryly. Her relationship with David had come as a surprise, even to her. He wasn't really the type of guy she'd dated in the past. Not that her demanding schedule allowed for much dating, although the few flings Rachel had had were with theatre actors. She'd had a brief tryst with a record producer, but that hardly counted since she immediately ceased contact after he mentioned a certain fetish he had with shoes and...insertion. But David, David was different. For one thing, he had very little professional training, a face made for People's Sexiest everything list and a bad-boy rep. With films like _Last Bullet for the Win_ and _Ninja's Decree_ under his belt, Rachel was pretty certain that he'd be the last person she would fall for. And yet, she had. There was something about him that drew her in. He was persistent about perusing her, almost to the point of arrogance. She remembers once after turning down his dinner offer for the hundredth time, he had flashed her that toothy grin and, running his hand through that beach-blonde hair he winked and said, "You know, for someone so short and loud-mouthed you're unbelievably hot, Berry."

She thinks that's the moment she was sold. She still wouldn't be able to tell you why though. But his persistence paid off and under that cocky swagger, she met the real David. The boy who grew up in a tense, loveless household, whose mother died when he was fifteen. Who left home at seventeen just to be away from his domineering father. She saw beneath the façade he showed the world and she loved him for it.

So, she looks past the fact that he eats meat like a starving lion and that the only musical he'll watch is Tim Burton's _Sweeney Todd_ because of the blood and gore. She doesn't mind that he's a night-owl while she's a morning-person or that he sleeps on her side of the bed when he spends the night. She doesn't mind because she loves him, she really does. So the fact that she's been away from home for almost two weeks and she doesn't necessarily _miss_ him, doesn't bother her as much as it should, because it's only been two weeks, right? And she _loves_ him and that's enough. Right?

Puck's voice comes over the receiver next. And she makes a mental note to save his number so that it doesn't show up as 'unknown'.

_What's up, Miss Hollywood? Listen, I don't know if Quinn told you, because she was kind of being a pussy about it, but my band's playing at The Tub tomorrow night. You should come. It'll be awesome and if I tell people you'll be there we might actually get a decent crowd for once. Think about it. Oh, also, Q's playing bass, so you'll have something to look forward to._

Rachel rolls her eyes slightly as she brings the phone away from her ear. She's suddenly buzzed. The fatigue she felt earlier, completely evaporated. She supposes her brief nap had something to do with it, but she's more convinced it's got to do with the fact that she'll be seeing Quinn…and, and Puck and his band playing. She's excited to see her friends.

With a long, frustrated sigh, she falls back into the plush cushions. Rachel doesn't do repression. She doesn't do denial. She's spent way too many of her teenage years in therapy (voluntarily, of course) to know that nothing good comes of it. So she knows that it's no good pretending she isn't at least slightly attracted to Quinn Fabray. But, as Dr Stein always told her, facing ones emotions and acting on them are two very different things. Besides, just because she finds Quinn attractive and happens to occasionally remember certain details of their once rendezvous or whatever one would call it doesn't mean that she wants to _be_ with the girl for goodness sake. Anyone with eyes and a healthy libido would find Quinn Fabray attractive Rachel reasons, annoyed that she's even having this discussion with herself. With a huff, she reaches for her phone and dials David's number, resolved to spend some quality phone time with her fiancé.

...

By Friday evening, Rachel's phoned Puck to confirm that she'll indeed grace him with the honour of her presence. She didn't quite put it like that, but Puck was just pleased that he got to tell 'the guys' that he'd managed to get a Hollywood star to come and see them. She tried telling him that she'd much rather be referred to as a Broadway actress, but apparently, the title didn't have as much 'swag'. Thus far, the paparazzi have been surprisingly mellow and Rachel is hopeful that they won't cause too much of a scene if she arrives unguarded at the bar. Since her last feature film, in which she played Penelope Cruz's estranged daughter, the role which earned her a Golden Globe nomination and had her tipped to win the Oscar, her Tinsel Town worth has increased exponentially and the paparazzi, something she rarely had to worry about while she was on stage are now a constant bother.

She's resisted the urge to phone Quinn, arguing that Puck would confirm her attendance. Rachel's not sure why she's suddenly avoiding Quinn, but after her two-hour long phone call with David the night before, thoughts of the blonde girl are suddenly attached to an emotion very similar to guilt and while Rachel doesn't believe in denial, she does believe in self-preservation, so she prefers _not _to think about where these feelings are coming from.

...

_The Tub _is surprisingly upmarket compared to what Rachel had pictured. It's hardly _The 40/40 Club_, but it's certainly not the dingy student dive the name suggested. She gets there as the band is setting up and the place is already rather crowded. She wonders if Puck was lying when he said they had a hard time getting people to come to their gigs. Based on the turn-out, they're obviously rather popular. She attempts to blend in as she makes her way to the bar, snaking between the crowd until a cool hand on her shoulder has her spinning around.

Quinn is standing there, wearing an outfit that has Rachel gawking like a teenage boy at a Playboy centrefold. She knows she should close her mouth, in fact, her brain is screaming at her to stop ogling like an idiot and _say_ something, but she fears that saying something would prove rather counter-productive. Quinn, for her part, stands there, with a half-amused, half-concerned expression. And Rachel curses the skin-tight jeans, her plaid, button-up vest that shows off those toned arms and smooth pale shoulders. Doesn't she know it's customary to wear a shirt _underneath_ the vest, Rachel thinks with a hint of desperation.

"Hey, there you are! Are you okay?" Quinn finally asks when it looks as though Rachel's about to pass out and Rachel nods, hoping she doesn't look as faint as she suddenly feels.

"I'm just thirsty," she says, motioning towards the bar. "It's kinda hot in here."

"Yeah," Quinn sidles up next to her and takes her arm to lead her to the bar. "Mac's been working on the AC. C'mon. I'll buy you a drink before we start."

Rachel allows herself to be led by Quinn, ignoring the flutter in her stomach every time the blonde's bare elbow brushes against hers. "Who's Mac?" Rachel asks once they finally reach the counter.

"Hmm?" Quinn turns to face her fully and Rachel's struck by the intensity of her gaze. She's wearing make-up. It's the first time since she's seen her that she's been in make-up and though Rachel's pretty sure that Quinn's only gotten more attractive with age, with or without the use of artificial products, the addiction of colour to her lids has made her hazel eyes burn with light. Right now, they seem to be dancing with honeyed flame across Rachel's face. God, she suddenly needs that drink.

"You-uh," Rachel tries to find her bearings, her gaze moving away from Quinn's. "You mentioned someone named Mac."

"Oh." Quinn distractedly gestures towards the barman. "He's Vanessa's dad. He owns the place."

"Noah's girlfriend?" Rachel asks.

"Yeah." Quinn shoots her a grin. "Pretty neat huh? That's how they met. Puck was playing here and V was waitressing." She finally catches the skinny, pierced bartender's attention.

"Heeey, Q," he says, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Lou," she says shortly and gives him a smile.

"Who's your friend?" Lou rakes his gaze over Rachel in a way that can only be described a lecherous. Rachel almost jumps as Quinn's fingers curl around her forearm possessively.

"This is Rachel," Quinn says, her smile turning cool. Those eyes that were hot just a moment ago become icy and Rachel feels a shiver of something, something she refuses to acknowledge shoot through her from her hairline to the tips of her toes.

Lou's brow furrows. "Oh, shit," he says, realisation clouding his face. "You're Rachel Berry." He breaks into a wide grin and looks at Quinn for confirmation. When she rolls her eyes he lights up. "Oh fuck me! My sister's gonna fucking flip when I tell her you were here."

Rachel looks between Quinn and Lou, slightly perplexed. "Um, is he always like this?" she asks shooting Quinn a sidelong glance.

"Think of Puck in high-school and subtract five years," Quinn says wryly. Causing Rachel to smirk.

"Listen, can I get your autograph?" Lou asks, his eyes fixed on the sliver of cleavage between Rachel's top.

"Hey," Quinn snaps her fingers next to his ear. "How about you get us two tequila sunrises and I won't tell Mac about your maraschino cherry addiction."

Lou gulps. "Sure. Yeah, Q, coming right up."

Rachel watches in amusement as he scuttles away and glances at Quinn. "I'm impressed."

The blonde turns to her and those eyes warm up again like magic. "What do you mean?"

"You," Rachel leans back against the bar. "You being all head-bitch-in-chargy. It's very-"

"'Sup, Jewbabe!" Puck's voice comes from behind her, stopping Rachel from finishing her sentence. And part of her is grateful, because really, what the hell was she about to say? She hates that being around Quinn, being around those _eyes_ makes her feel so…reckless.

"Hello Noah," she says, turning to face Puck who is standing next to an insanely gorgeous, unbelievably tall woman who looks like the love child of Chanel Iman and Blair Underwood, both of whom Rachel has met.

"This is Van," he says, slipping his arm around the taller woman's waist. "Baby, meet Rachel Berry."

Vanessa holds out her hand. "Hi." Her voice is low, sort of raspy. Something about her reminds Rachel of Santana. "I'm a huge fan," she says sincerely, her aloofness breaking as her mouth moves into a smile.

"Thanks." Rachel returns the smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She turns back to Quinn who is nudging her with a glass.

"Here you go, superstar." Quinn winks at her playfully and Rachel blushes. She knows she blushes because she actually feels the warmth rising from her neck towards her cheeks. It's not fair that Quinn gets to do this, she thinks suddenly and irrationally. She needs to decide if she's going to be cute and bumbling or smooth and charming. She can't be both, Rachel decides, taking a gulp of her drink.

"You ready to play the best set of your life, Q? You better bring your A-game" Puck says, his gaze directed at Quinn.

Quinn raises her brow at him. "I wouldn't even be here if Bas hadn't crapped out on you guys. I'm doing _you_ a favour." She looks at his side, "No offense, V."

Vanessa shrugs, "Nah, you're right. And thanks, by the way for doing this. You're an amazing bassist. Don't listen to this douche."

"Heeeey," Puck puts his hand over his heart as if wounded and Rachel giggles which has Quinn looking down at her with a smile.

"Whatever," Puck continues, grabbing Quinn's drink out of her hand and swallowing it in one go, earning a punch from her. "Let's get this show on the road." He and Vanessa make their way towards the stage and Quinn turns to Rachel.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"Of course." Rachel feels the slow burn of the tequila move through her body and thinks that she's just found her new favourite drink. "I'll be fine right here, Quinn. I've got a great view of the stage and Lou and my beck and call."

Quinn groans slightly and Rachel laughs a little. "Seriously, get up there. I want to see you in action."

Quinn bites down on her bottom lip and Rachel wonders in she's imagining it or if Quinn's suddenly nervous. "Okay," she says softly and then she's skipping towards the stage and Rachel's trying very, very hard not to stare at her as she goes.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: ** Firstly, THANK YOU! You guys are seriously amazeballs! Every comment and review is like a piece of delicious candy-coated...candy, so YUM.

As for your questions: I've got about 20 chapters planned, so you still have quite a bit to look forward to. Things are juuuust getting started. As for Puck's party...well everything will reveal itself in good time ;)

Until then, enjoy the chapter...

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 5<span>**

As Vanessa croons out the last note in her raspy alto voice, Quinn takes a moment to study the crowd. They're nearing the end of the set and they've got full command of the audience, which is always good. A couple of college kids whistle loudly when they play a Vast cover and Puck winks at her as he sings, _Baby, baby, baby. I'm gonna take some innocence from you._ He's good, Quinn admits to herself. The whole band is and despite the hard time she gives him, Quinn enjoys playing with them when they need her. It's not often, but their regular bassist, a forty-something construction worker-slash-father of three named Joe occasionally needs to bail due to whatever family emergency and Quinn fills in. Now, she relishes in the feeling of the heavy drum beat behind her as Bas slams his sticks on the snare, the hot screech of Puck's guitar and the sensual pull of Vanessa's voice. The adrenaline that comes from being on stage is a thing not easily captured. In fact, the only thing Quinn can really liken it too is the rush she gets while painting, well that and sex.

She can feel the sweat dripping down the back of her neck as her fingers pluck on the strings of her Gibson. She's playing a particularly difficult piece. She remembers Puck writing this song. He was going through a Chili Peppers phase and there's a heavy emphasis on bass and percussion. She keeps up and then some and the crowd erupts in applause once the song's over. Puck picks his beer off the ground and takes a hearty gulp before turning to Vanessa.

"Wanna slow things down a bit?"

She raises an eyebrow in question. He leans in and whispers something in her ear which makes her nod in response. Before Quinn has a chance to question, Puck begins strumming the chords to a song that was most definitely not on the set list and Vanessa mouths to her,

"Back me up."

Quinn knows the song. They covered it in Cambridge a few months ago when they played a gig at Vanessa's sister's birthday party. Her and Quinn's voices harmonise perfectly together. The only reason Quinn is rebelling against the idea of singing it now is the same reason she couldn't bring herself to look towards the bar for the entirely of the set. One look at Rachel Berry and Quinn knows she's sure to lose her shit.

But here Vanessa is, singing the first verse of Julia Stone's _Memory Machine_ and Quinn has no choice but to lean in and allow the lyrics to flow out of her.

_-and our voices became our fingers__  
><em>_and you touched me with your song__  
><em>_you touched me all night long_

She finds she can't help but turn her head towards the bar, where of course those eyes, those all-encompassing eyes are locked on her. Rachel looks mesmerised and Quinn feels powerful and undone all at the same time. She can't hear Vanessa's voice or Puck's guitar, all she hears, all she knows is the song and who she's singing it for, because if there was ever a song to sing for Rachel, this would be it. And suddenly, she's gripping the mic and staring directly at Rachel, as she changes the next line from present tense to past.

_I missed you  
>I missed you<br>and the memory machine  
>making whiskey from the things<br>we no longer need  
>and you kissed me<br>but I was too drunk to really know  
>that you loved me<br>enough to watch me go  
>I missed you<em>

She finishes the last line on a tremulous breath and forces herself to look away, breaking the invisible tether that runs between Rachel and her. Except even without her eyes on the brunette, the air around them seems to crackle with electricity and Quinn wonders if the applause ringing in her ears is just a by-product of that charge. Then Puck's voice is filtering through the microphone and she's forcing herself to focus.

"Thank you. We're Boston Specific and we've got one more song for you, so hold on tight."

Puck turns back and nods to Bas who counts four beats before Puck launches in with a complex guitar solo. Vanessa comes in next with the lyrics to one of their best songs, in Quinn's opinion. The crowd laps it up, rocking out to the heavy drum beat. They end with one last breathy note from Vanessa and the audience breaks into applause.

Part of Quinn wants to soak in the magic, the validation of a job well-done, but the other part, the part that's willing her to keep her eyes straight ahead just wants to get the hell off the stage. When they do eventually make it back to the storage room slash band room they're giddy with post-gig fever.

"Okay," Bas, the lanky bespectacled drummer says with a grin, "This may be adrenaline talking, but that was fucking awesome."

Quinn grins at him. Something about him reminds her of Sam Evans. He's like a Korean version of Sam, she thinks as Bas returns her grin. He's sweet and clueless and a gigantic geek, but he's got passion and he's good at what he does. He would have fit right in at Glee Club, she thinks idly as Puck holds up his hand for a fist pump.

"Dude, you speak the truth. That was off the hook."

"We had that crowd on their knees begging us for more," Vanessa says smugly. "I haven't seen a place this riled up since, what was it, New Year's Eve?"

"Tonight was pretty intense," Quinn agrees.

"Yeah, speaking of intense," Puck turns to her, "What was with you serenading Rachel?"

Quinn forces her face to remain impassive as the other members of the group turn to her. "What are you-? I wasn't."

"You were practically eye-fucking her from across the room." He looks to Vanessa for some support and she shrugs her shoulders lazily.

"You did seem super intense while you were singing, Q. Also, you changed the lyrics. Now normally, I'd have your ass for that, but you were so into it, you made it work, so, whatever."

Quinn's eyes dart between the couple. "I can't believe you guys."

"Hey," Puck reaches out to grab her arm when she makes a move to walk away, "There's nothing wrong with wanting a little Berry juice, I mean, that is a fine jew." He looks towards his girlfriend. "You know what I mean, baby."

She rolls her eyes slightly, but nods.

"So," Puck continues, "I'm just saying, you should go for it, Q."

Quinn tugs her arm out of his grip, but doesn't make any move to leave. Instead she sighs. "Yeah, look. Thanks for the encouragement, but I don't think Rachel's interested."

Vanessa scoffs and pops the cap off a beer. "Girl, she was practically x-raying your ovaries. I'm with Noah. You've been high and dry way too long. If you can get a little Rachel Berry action, go for it."

"Wait!" Bas pipes up, "Rachel Berry? As in star of Cameron Scott's _Red Periphery_, the film that just won Best Picture at the Sundance Film Festival? _That_ Rachel Berry?"

Quinn's annoyance melts into amusement as she nods. "Yes, Bas, _that_ Rachel Berry. Puck and I went to high school with her."

Bas looks at them with an incredulous expression. "Why did nobody tell me about this? I could have brought my Blu-Ray for her to sign! What the hell guys?" He pushes his thick, black framed spectacles further up his nose and plops down on the ratty little couch.

"Not all of us are movie nerds, dude. Don't get your diapers in a twist, I'll introduce you."

Bas perks up. "Yeah?"

Puck's smirk grows. "Better yet, when Quinn's done making out with Berry, she can introduce you."

Quinn makes a little growling noise and runs her hand over her face in frustration. "When you guys are done acting like 5-year olds, I'll be at the bar. Rachel's waiting."

"Have fun," Puck and Vanessa sing out simultaneously, causing Quinn to flip them off on her way out.

...

She finds Rachel in exactly the same spot she left her, only the brunette's eyes are a little brighter, her smile is a fraction wider and her make-up is a tad smudged. "Quiiiiin!" she squeals, launching herself off the barstool and straight into Quinn's arms.

"You were amazing!" Rachel breathes against her neck. In heels, the actress in practically her height. "You were so, so uh-mazing!" When Rachel pulls back, she's looking at Quinn with complete and utter adoration.

"Uh, how many of those tequila sunrises did'ya have, Rach?" Quinn watches as Rachel's eyelids flutter as she thinks about it and she tries really hard not to think about the way Rachel's arms are still linked around her neck.

"A few," she admits, biting her lower lip somewhat mischievously. "David called," she says in a stage whisper, "And I didn't answer, and then, then I felt all guilty, but Louie over there," she flails wildly towards the bartender, who winks at her, "Louie's spectacular," Rachel says grinning. "He said he'd fix me a drink to make it all go away."

Quinn shoots daggers at Lou. She's going to kill him. _After_ Rachel removes her hand from the back of her neck.

"And then you began to play," Rachel says, her eyes back on Quinn's. "And that song. It just made me-"

Quinn watches as Rachel's eyes darken for a moment and when they clear again, she looks more coherent. "You were really good," she breathes finally.

Quinn feels her mouth twitch. She wants to stop her pounding heart, she wants to pull Rachel away and get some air, because right now, she feels like she can barely breathe and the adrenaline still pumping through her veins is telling her to do dark, dangerous things, or maybe it's just the way Rachel keeps pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Either, way, Quinn exhales a shaky breath and steps back.

"Thanks," she eventually manages to say. "It, uh, means a lot. That you came I mean."

Rachel shrugs a shoulder. "Of course I came."

"Hey Q!"

Quinn turns to see Puck and Bas coming towards them from the back of the bar and she's filled with a sudden and inexplicable need to keep Rachel to herself. She doesn't want to fill this space that they've just created with Puck's sordid quips and Bas's nerdy, wide-eyed adoration. She wants to fill it with something else, something she's not quite ready to articulate, but she's getting there.

"Hey," she leans in. Rachel's hair smells like raspberries. In a smoky pub filled with beer and sweaty students, Rachel manages to smell like raspberries. Quinn allows herself one moment to inhale deeply before she realises that sniffing someone's hair is a little creepy. "Um, Rach, you wanna get out of here? I know a great coffee place nearby."

Rachel turns to her, still slightly unstable. "You don't want to hang out with your band?" She's cute, Quinn thinks, genuinely confused and Quinn shakes her head.

"Nah, I think I've seen enough of them for the night. Besides, you look like you could use some caffeine."

Rachel's smile turns dopey. "Hmm, I like caffeine."

Quinn chuckles as she ushers her out before Puck and Bas get a chance to reach them. "I know."

...

The night is chilly, but not as brutal as most Boston nights are and they're able to walk the block without feeling as through their noses are about to fall off. By the time they've reached the little restaurant on the corner of Tremont Street, Rachel's mostly sober from what Quinn can judge.

"This really is a lovely place, Quinn," Rachel says as Quinn sort of shuffles her in through the saloon-type doors. She raises two fingers to a waiter coming out from the kitchen who acknowledges her with a nod and they sit down in a quiet corner. The lighting's dim, since the small restaurant is illuminated mainly by floating candles on the tables, yet the simple décor and relaxed mood manages to be intimate without being overtly romantic. There's a light jazz tune playing through the speakers that Quinn thinks might be Miles Davis, then again it might be Coltrane, since her knowledge of jazz is rather limited.

"Do you come here often?" Rachel inquires once they're seated and comfy. Her eyes have lost their hazy glow, but now they're sparkling with a different kind of light and Quinn takes a moment before answering.

"I used to," she says softly as she idly scratches against the scented candle in the middle of the table. "Now with Max, it's difficult to get out, you know?" When she looks up to meet Rachel's gaze, the brunette is looking at her with a curious expression. "He's staying with Hector and Paul tonight," Quinn elaborates. "Hector's my boss. He and Paul have just adopted a little boy about Max's age, so they baby-sit sometimes."

Rachel hums in acknowledgement. "So, how long is he with you for?"

"A couple of weeks," Quinn swallows. "My-uh, my sister's on a cruise so…" she trails off, hating that she has to lie to Rachel, but not really seeing an alternative. There's no way she's prepared to dump all of her baggage, not to mention Francine's baggage on the actress.

Rachel accepts the answer without question. "Well, you're doing a wonderful thing, Quinn. Looking after him I mean. He clearly adores you."

The smile that lights up Quinn's face at the thought of her nephew is unintentional. "He's a really great kid, you know?"

Quinn almost jumps out of her skin when Rachel reaches across the table and covers Quinn's hand with her own. Her fingers are cold, obviously still recovering from the chilly night air and without thinking about it much, well actually, she thinks about it to the point of near-aneurysm , but eventually curls her own, warmer fingers around Rachel's.

The brunette briefly glances at their joined hands, then back up at Quinn. "Well, he takes after his aunt then."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Clearly, you're still drunk or have forgotten most of our high-school years." She wants to kick herself for bringing it up. But it's word-vomit with Rachel sometimes. The things she wants to say and the things she ends up saying are two very different things, which is highly ironic considering she's in the company of the queen-of-loquaciousness. She never thought that Rachel Berry would make her nervous and yet here she is, holding hands and hoping her palms don't start sweating like a teenager's.

But Rachel scoffs. "Quinn, I'm neither drunk nor forgetful. I've told you, high-school was a different time, we were different people." Her grip around Quinn's fingers tightens. "What matters is now. And right now, I'm very happy to be here with you." Rachel shoots her a classic Berry grin and Quinn finds herself melting.

"Me too," she says softly. "Now how about some coffee? And where the hell is our-"

"Hi Quinn."

At the sound of the voice Quinn jerks her hands out of Rachel's grasp. It was more on instinct that anything else, but now she immediately feels guilty, especially when Rachel's looking at her like that. But Quinn tilts her head up to stare at the owner of the voice that sent her into panic.

A short, auburn haired young-woman looks back at her with a tentative smile. And Quinn feels guilt crawl up the sides of her throat.

"Hey Jess," she says trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible while her internal monologue is a jumbled mesh of _._ "I, uh…I thought you were in Chicago."

Jess bites on her lower lips nervously and plays with the edge of her notepad. "My mom got checked out early, so I decided to come back." She gives Quinn a pointed look. "I called you. Didn't you get any of my messages?"

Yes. "No." Quinn purses her lips and shakes her head. She refuses to look at Rachel, who is observing this exchange with interest.

"Oh, well," Jess looks a little uncertain and her gaze darts towards Rachel. "I guess I must have gotten the numbers mixed up or something," she says it unconvincingly, her eyes still on Rachel and Quinn clears her throat, wishing she could sink into the soft cushion of the chair and be engulfed for all eternity.

"Uh, Jess this is Rachel." She finally drags her gaze towards Rachel's almost amused face. "Rachel, this is Jess."

"Hi," Rachel extends her hand and offers a beaming smile. Jess takes it for a moment but says nothing before looking back to Quinn.

"What can I get you?" she asks her voice suddenly flat.

"I'll have a whiskey and lime," Rachel says quickly and Quinn looks at her sharply.

"What happened to the caffeine?"

Rachel's mouth curves into a smirk as she says, "Somehow I think we're going to need something a little stronger, don't you?"

Quinn feels the blood rushing to her ears, but her bites down on the insides of her cheeks and merely nods. "Make that two," she tells Jess softly, hoping she's not going to regret this.

Two drinks and a shot of tequila later (Quinn warned her not to mix, but she insisted she knew what she was doing) Rachel's squinting at Quinn and darn it if it isn't the most adorable expression Quinn's ever seen.

"Sooo," Rachel drawls. "You're like gay?"

Quinn almost snorts with laughter. It isn't funny, it really isn't, except for the fact that this is the fourth time Rachel's said it and she still doesn't look any closer to comprehending the meaning of the words. "Yes," Quinn affirms, taking a sip of her water.

"Okay," Rachel holds up a finger, "but like Amber Heard gay or Ellen gay?"

Quinn exhales a breath of half-amusement, half-frustration. "God, I don't know, Rach. Like Portia gay I guess."

Rachel gives an exaggerated nod as if it all makes sense. "Ah, so you've been with guys," she giggles a little. "Of course you have. But you realised you like girls better?"

"That's one way of putting it," Quinn says, still amazed that she's even having this conversation with Rachel.

"When did you realise?" Rachel's expression has gotten serious now and she runs her finger around the rim of her glass. Quinn finds this terribly distracting, especially considering every time said finger slips, Rachel ends up bringing it to her mouth and sucking off the alcohol.

"Uh, when did I what?" she asks, taking another sip of her water. She's suddenly parched.

"When did you realise you like girls?" Rachel looks at her with an open stare that has Quinn wanting to look away, except she can't.

"In a way," she sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. "In a way I guess I've always kind of known that I wasn't—well that what I felt for guys was not the way other girls felt about guys. But you know, it was high-school and I was Quinn Fabray-"

"You're still Quinn Fabray," Rachel interjects.

"Yeah, well I was Quinn Fabray with a stick up her ass and a chip on her shoulder. I figured there was just something wrong with me, you know? Like I wasn't made to feel that way about anybody. Like," Quinn takes another breath and shifts her gaze away because suddenly talking about this is _hard_. "Like I was so fucked up that I couldn't love."

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel breathes.

Quinn clears her throat and brings her eyes back to Rachel's. "Anyway," she continues, willing her voice to remain steady, "After I first… kissed a girl," she says quickly, "I realised that the numbness I'd been feeling with Finn and Puck and all those other guys wasn't there anymore and suddenly I had all these…feelings." Quinn shrugs, "It took me a while to actually accept it, and even longer to come out, but here I am."

"I'm glad you're here," Rachel says softly.

Quinn watches that lip disappear between her teeth and her eyes find themselves trailing the path from Rachel's mouth to her throat. Her pulse point is clearly visible, an indication that her heart is beating nearly as hard as Quinn's. Or maybe it's just the alcohol in her bloodstream.

"So," Rachel's mildly slurred voice brings her out of her daze. "Did you sleep with her?"

Quinn's head shoots up and something inside rattles, reminding her that she's had a couple of glasses too. "Who?"

"The pretty brunette," Rachel says not so subtly motioning towards Jess. "She looked like you killed her puppy. Then hoisted its carcass up a flag-pole."

Quinn grimaces at the image before replying. "We uh," she debates how much to tell Rachel before realising that there's really no point in holding back anymore. "It wasn't serious," Quinn says. "I don't do serious."

"Sounds ominous." Rachel's finger is back to its swirling motion.

"Not really," Quinn replies, but she can feel her heart thudding. It's like that moment, when you're fourteen and the guy you like touches your hand for the first time and you feel like your heart's about to explode, except Rachel's not touching her. God, Rachel's barely looking at her and yet, and yet is feels as though they're on the precipice of something. "I just like to keep things simple," she continues and Rachel nods really slowly, like she's thinking hard about something.

"Simple's good," she says finally, looking up at Quinn. "We can do simple."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

It feels as though a colony of furry woodland creatures has died inside her mouth. She attempts to swallow and grimaces. Yep, she's in definite need of some H20 and then a jug of caffeine. Maybe after the marching band in her head decides to quit its rendition of _The Stars and Stripes Forever_. Rachel groans as a wet sensation trails down her cheek and for a fleeting moment, she wonders if Lola is trying to wake her up for breakfast. But then the wetness moves to her forehead and suddenly it feels less like doggy tongue and more like…well she's not quite sure _what_ it feels like, but she's pretty sure it can't be anything good. So, mustering all her energy, Rachel allows her eyes to open into tiny slits, just wide enough to make out the blurry image of the space-ships on the flannel pyjamas of the dwarf-like creature standing in front of her. Wait, why is there a dwarf dressed in bright blue pj's in her apartment? With a shriek, Rachel sits up, and immediately regrets it when the room begins to spin. It takes her approximately seven seconds to realise that the room in question is not in fact her bedroom. She's about to panic, when two things occur simultaneously. Her gaze falls on the framed photograph of Puck and Quinn pushing a six-year old Beth on a swing and the pyjamas-wearing 'dwarf' yells, "Puck! She woked up!"

Rachel looks down at Max Fabray, who is staring up at her with an observant expression. In his right hand is a paintbrush, which is currently soaked in bright pink paint. Gingerly, Rachel reaches up to touch her cheek. It's sticky and crackly and she has little doubt as to what the cause is.

"Don't or you'll wuin it!" Max exclaims fiercely. He gestures towards Rachel's face with a tiny finger. "I painted you pink cause you're a pwincess and on _Dwagon Tales_ the pwincess is pink! Quinn boughted me paints." He says it proudly, and waves the brush about. "Do you wanna paint with me?"

"Um, I don't-what?" Rachel runs her fingers through her hair. The last few hours are a haze of tequila sunrises and…oh god…whiskey? Why had she mixed? She looks around the room until she spots the bathroom. First step, eliminate furry woodland creatures, second step –

"Damn, Berry what did you drink last night?" Puck rounds the corner, wearing a loose pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt declaring, "On the 8th Day, God Created Beer". He's got a toothbrush hanging out the side of his mouth. His grin widens when he spots Max lingering at the side of the bed. "Dude, what have we discussed about painting people while they're sleeping?"

Max bites on his lower lip and looks between Rachel and Puck with an innocent expression. "But she's a pwincess," he says reverently. Pucks snorts and ruffles Max's hair.

"I think your Lucky Charms are getting all mushy. Go eat 'em before they go unlucky."

The little boy looks up at him with wide eyes. "_Un_lucky?"

"Yeah," Puck shuffles the boy out. "And ask Van to wipe that paint off your hands before you touch the clicker!" he calls after Max who goes bouncing out of the room.

"Vanessa's here?" Rachel squeaks, running her hands through her wild bed-hair.

"Relax, babe," Puck says pressing his lips together. "Hung-over looks good on you. The pink war-paint? Not so much."

Rachel falls back onto the pillows with groan and covers her eyes with her arm. That marching band was getting really loud. "What happened last night?" she asks to no-one in particular. But, since Puck is there, he takes up the challenge of answering.

"You and Q came in sometime after two, and by the sound of things, you were pretty trashed."

Rachel sits up quickly, trying to ignore the way the room seems to tilt on its axis. "Quinn! Is she-?"

"She's out getting coffee," Puck says, picking lint off his t-shirt. "The machine broke a couple 'a days ago. She said you'd probably need it once you were conscious." His grin narrows into a smirk, "What did you guys do last night anyway?"

"We-I..." Rachel's face contorts for a second. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Puck takes an automatic step back and points to the direction of Quinn's en-suite. "Bathroom's that way."

She manages a muffled "Thanks," before she she's up and running, not registering that she's wearing nothing but an old AAU t-shirt that barely covers her thighs.

She just makes it to the ceramic bowl when her stomach revolts and Rachel's convinced that she's dying. And, as she retches up everything she's consumed over the last five years or so, she laments over the fact that she'll never know whether she's won the Golden Globe or not. A few seconds later, Puck comes trudging in, looking at her with a pitiful expression.

"Can I get you anything? I don't really do the holding hair back thing though. Quinn's hair is really short and Van drinks like a fucking sailor, so she's never really…" he shrugs. "You look terrible. What you need is a beer."

"Thanks," she says, feeling every bit as terrible as she apparently looks. "But I think I'll stick with water." She clears her throat, "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Noah."

"Anything for my number one Jew," he says sticking his toothbrush back into his mouth and high-tailing it out of the bathroom.

After a minute of dry-retching, Rachel's seventy-six percent certain her body's done torturing her and she slumps against the toilet bowl with a weary groan. Why had she mixed? What in Barbra's name had convinced her that tequila and whiskey and god knows what else she had after that sixth shot was a good combination?

And then it hit her. The pub, the performance, the restaurant, the waitress and Quinn. Quinn being all hot and singing songs with that, that sultry, breathy voice that, oh god, had gotten so much better over time. Quinn being all chivalrous and sweet and ordering her drinks and taking her out for air. Quinn being all, all…gay.

Rachel brings her hand to her throbbing head and sighs into it. She vaguely recalls aspects of their conversation the night before and her stomach churns with a different kind of nausea. Oh sweet Minnelli, the things she had said, or at least insinuated, were not things she had wanted to say…at least not quite like that. Except for the part where they're exactly the things she had wanted to say, probably since she'd first seen Quinn in that poorly-lit Wal-Mart. Her head resumes its spinning and Rachel feels completely discombobulated, like one moment she's in Kansas and the next…hello Oz!

A light knock on the door has her looking up expecting to find Puck, but instead, Quinn's leaning against the door frame, a bottle of Avian in her hand and a sympathetic smile on her face. "Hey."

Rachel swallows the bile that rises up in her throat and attempts a smile. "Hey." Her voice sounds gravelly and she's reminded why she rarely drinks to the point of oblivion.

"How are you feeling?" Quinn asks, handing the bottle of water over to her.

"Embarrassed," Rachel replies, self-consciously shoving her bangs out of her eyes. She unscrews the water and drinks at least half the bottle before lowering it with a sigh and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. If only her adoring fans could see her now, she thinks wryly. Tony award winner Rachel Barbra Berry reduced to a drunken mess on a bathroom floor.

Quinn bites down on her bottom lip for a moment before speaking. "Uh, Rachel. Is there a reason you have paint all over your face?"

Rachel's fingers come up to try and flick off the peeling pink splatters. "Max was feeling artistic".

"My fault," Quinn says, looking somewhat amused, somewhat rueful. "I bought him a little paint set last week and he's been kinda…intense about it."

Rachel tries to smile, but right now, the best she can manage is a grimace.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, finally looking at Quinn, who sort of slinks down against the doorframe until she's on the floor opposite Rachel. Unlike Rachel, however, she's freshly scrubbed and bright-eyed. "Last night should have been about you," she continues. "Your gig, your night. Instead, you ended up baby-sitting me and my drunken self." She looks truly remorseful and Quinn reaches out to place a hand on Rachel's knee. They both look down at the contact as Rachel suddenly becomes very aware of the length of the t-shirt that is now riding up her thighs. Quinn, for her part, just smiles reassuringly and slowly lets her hand fall away.

"Listen, Rachel, I had a great time last night. Even the drunken karaoke was oddly fun."

Rachel feels her lips tug into a small smile. "You had a good time? Wait-what? Drunken karaoke?"

Quinn clamps down on her lips as though she's holding back a laugh. "How much of last night do you remember exactly?"

Rachel runs her fingers through her hair, regretting it immediately as she feels the tangles. "Uh, the pub, you singing, that song was…wow." She'd be lying if she said she didn't take a certain pleasure in seeing Quinn's cheeks darken. "Then the restaurant and I had way too much to drink."

Quinn raises her brow. "So you remember what we talked about?"

"Sort of," Rachel says, aware that now her cheeks are colouring. "I mean, it's a bit blurry, you know?"

"Hmm," Quinn replies, a smirk playing on her lips. "And you definitely don't remember standing up and serenading me and the rest of the restaurant with an impromptu performance of _Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch-Touch-Me_?"

Rachel's eyes bulge. Okay, now she's definitely going to be sick again. "I didn't."

Quinn nods, her face sombre. "I'm afraid you did. If I remember correctly, you got all the way to 'I'll oil you up and drop you down' before someone whipped out their phone and I managed to get you seated."

"This is beyond humiliating." She buries her head in her hands. Now would be a good time to die. Golden Globes be damned.

Quinn laughs before reaching out for her and removing her hands from her face. "Rachel?"

When Rachel looks up, the blonde is staring back at her with a warm, affectionate expression. "I really did have a good time last night," she says it so softly, so shyly that Rachel has no choice but to believe it sincere.

"Me too," Rachel replies and is surprised to find she means it, drunken karaoke aside of course.

Quinn gets up and offers the brunette her hand. "C'mon. There's cold coffee in the kitchen and maybe a bagel that Puck hasn't devoured yet."

Rachel allows herself to be pulled up before looking down at her attire with an uncertain expression. "Uh, Quinn, I don't suppose you have shorts I can borrow. I mean, I'm grateful for the shirt, it's just-"

Quinn looks down at Rachel's very exposed legs then snaps her head back up in the opposite direction. "Oh, god, sorry! Um, you had shorts on when you went to bed. You were complaining about being hot, so maybe you took it off. I can check-"

"Oh, no, no need." Rachel counters, resisting the temptation to pull on the hem of the t-shirt. It's probably tangled up in the blankets or something."

"Yeah," Quinn murmurs and Rachel pretends, she pretends really hard that she can't feel Quinn's gaze on her exposed thighs.

"Do you have a- um, toothbrush I could use?"

"Yes!" The blonde's gaze jerks upwards. "There's a spare in the cabinet and clean towels in the hamper, if you want to take a shower."

Rachel feels relief at the thought of a shower. A long, hot glorious shower. "Thanks."

Quinn's slowly backing out of the bathroom. "Okay, I'll leave you to it then."

As Rachel closes the bathroom door she swears she hears Quinn humming the first few bars of _Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch-Touch-Me._

**_..._**

As Rachel lathers Quinn's pineapple-scented shampoo into her hair (no wonder the girl smelled like a Pina-Colada the night before) she weighs up her options. Under the hot spray of water, the events of the previous night become startlingly clear and Rachel feels that terrifying jolt of excitement that comes from wanting something. For all her passion and drive, she's become surprisingly… complacent. Her career is flourishing; her relationship is stable and according to her agent, she's about to be on Time's list of '100 most influential women under 30'. She's no longer fighting for solos like she was in high-school, she's got the jock that every girl wants and every guy wants to be, she's finally in that place she always dreamed of. She just never quite imagined that this place would be so, well… boring. A while back, she had the ridiculous notion that something was missing, that she was searching for something she couldn't find, except there wasn't any aspect of her life that she could pinpoint as unfulfilled. So, she had consulted her shrink and her life-couch and subsequently bought a dog, or at least, David had bought a dog. She'd wanted a kitten, but she had come home one day and on her bed was the tiniest, sorriest looking canine she'd ever laid eyes on and Lola was immediately adopted. The feeling of loss never quite dissipated, but Rachel pushed it further and further down until it became part of her. She had almost forgotten it existed, like a cancer that was slow-eating and inconspicuous - until last night. Somewhere between watching Quinn sing and downing her sixth shot, Rachel felt something she thought she'd never again experience: the fear of wanting something unattainable and the rush of deciding to go for it anyway.

By the time she gets out of the shower, the water's running cold and she's as twisted up inside as she's ever been. Thankfully, Quinn's laid a fresh pair of yoga pants and a loose-fitting hoodie on the bed for her to change into, so she won't have to worry about rummaging for that sleep shorts. She really is humiliated that, after trying so hard to present this new, grown-up version of Rachel Berry to Quinn, she ends up hung-over and wearing the other girl's clothes like she's some foolish sixteen-year old.

Though she hardly has much time to dwell on it when a squeal and emphatic round of 'whooping' draws her to the kitchen where Vanessa and Quinn are hugging and jumping and Puck, with Max on his shoulders, is zooming around the kitchen yelling, "Aw, yeeeah!" Rachel observes the scene with a befuddled expression. She wants to find out what the commotion is about, but something about the shared joy and intimacy of the scene has her holding back.

When Quinn and Vanessa finally break apart, she catches the blonde's gaze with a tentative smile and Quinn grins widely. Rachel wonders if she'll ever tire of seeing that pure, unadulterated look of happiness on Quinn's face. She's seen it more times in the past week than she had in her entire high-school career.

"What's going on?" Rachel asks, stepping further into the living room.

"We're getting signed!" Puck says, lowering Max who bounces around chanting, "aw yeeeah!"

"I just got the call," Vanessa elaborates with almost breathless excitement. "A friend of a friend owns this independent label and he saw the gig last night. He was really impressed." She's grinning like she can't help herself.

"It's tiny as fuck, but it'll get our shit out there, you know," Puck says and Quinn looks at him sharply.

"Puck! Language!"

"Sorry," he says quickly and looks down at Max who seems to be distracted by the fridge magnets. "So, Berry, you know any good motels in Connecticut?"

"Connecticut?" Rachel and Quinn ask at the same time.

"Yeah, the dude wants us to go down for a week to record and shi-stuff. Bas and Joe are trudging along, so it'll be cool." He looks at Quinn. "Can you like, deal without me for a couple a days?"

Her eyes flicker to Rachel for a second before she nods. "Yeah, of course." She lightly punches his shoulder. "Go be a rock star." Rachel watches as Quinn turns to Vanessa and with genuine warmth says, "I'm so proud of you guys."

As Vanessa squeals and pulls Quinn in for another hug, Rachel feels a strange tug of jealousy. Not directed towards the woman currently bouncing around with Quinn, but rather the scene itself, the easy familiarity with which they interact, the warmth and openness they display. They're a family, Rachel realised and family is something she's sort of been missing ever since she'd recently left Broadway for the bright lights of Hollywood.

"As much as I wanna get some Puck-sauce in the middle of this sandwich, I gotta go help Bas move his sh-stuff out of _The Tub_." Vanessa and Quinn simultaneously roll their eyes at Puck's crude suggestion, but the taller woman, slips her arm through her boyfriend's anyway.

"C'mon, baby. You can buy me brunch to celebrate."

"Goodbye, Maxi!" Vanessa calls to the little boy, currently arranging the fruit and veg fringe magnets in something that looks suspiciously like a penis.

"Bye, Van!" he calls back, offering her a toothy smile.

"Hey, what about me?" Puck asks and the little boy goes sprinting towards him.

"See ya' later, dude!" Max says proudly and Puck looks to Quinn with a shit-eating grin.

Vanessa turns her head and offers Rachel a small smile. "Look after this one, while we're away, Rachel, she doesn't go out nearly as much as she should, and if left to her own devices, she'd eat Cheerios all day."

"V!" Quinn practically squeals, turning beet-red, and Rachel laughs, wondering if Vanessa meant the double-entendre.

"I'll do my best." Rachel answers with a wink purely for Quinn's benefit. She watches Puck and Vanessa leave, wondering how Noah Puckerman ever managed to get _that _lucky.

**...**

The room is quiet for a second before Max declares, "Quinn, I wanna watch Nemo!"

"One or two?" the blonde asks heading towards the DVD shelf and Rachel has to stop herself from pointing out that the sequel, made a couple of years ago, is vastly inferior to its predecessor, if only because they were unable to get Ellen DeGeneres back as Dory. But apparently the little Fabray has taste, because he says, "One! Wanna see 'little duuuude!'"

Once Max is settled and comfortable mouthing along with the film, Quinn turns her attention to Rachel.

"God, I'm sorry, you must be starving. I got so caught up in the band thing that I forgot you've barely had breakfast."

Rachel brushes it off with a wave of her hand and seats herself on a kitchen stool. "Please, this is like, every actress's dream. Forced starvation."

Quinn turns to face her so quickly; Rachel almost falls back off the chair. "You're not serious?" Her tone is surprisingly harsh. "Please tell me, you don't buy into to all of that Hollywood crap."

Rachel's slightly taken aback. Quinn's face is earnest, bordering on worried. "What? No, Quinn, it was a joke." She reaches across the table for a banana out of the fruit bowl. "Look, see," Rachel begins to peel it, "Yum."

"No, Rachel," Quinn half-chuckles and reaches out to take the banana from her. "Don't. I'll make you something real." Rachel watches as the blonde shakes her head before putting the banana aside. "I'm sorry, I just – I'd hate to think of you trying to be like all those cardboard cut-outs on E! Your body's perfect."

Rachel swallows before saying anything. It could be that Quinn's just being friendly and nice and well sort of motivational, except for the way her voice dropped on that last sentence and Rachel's suddenly light-headed. "Well, uh…you've got nothing to worry about. I still maintain a healthy and balanced vegan lifestyle."

"So, what'll it be? I've got fruit-salad, half a bagel, last night's pizza. Oh, I can make you an omelette if you wa-no, no eggs, right?"

"Quinn?" She waits until Quinn sticks her head out of the fridge and looks at her. "You know, you really don't have to make breakfast for me. I mean, you let me sleep in your bed, you let me borrow your clothes. I'd say you've done more than eno-"

"What did you mean last night when you said we could keep things simple?"

The question catches Rachel off guard and she feels her heart catch in her throat. She knows Quinn can see it on her face and it literally takes every skill she's ever leant in every acting class she's ever taken to say, "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

And Quinn raises an eyebrow. That eyebrow that's struck fear into the hearts of so many underlings for so many years. "You don't remember?" Her tone is neutral and Rachel can't make out any hint of scepticism or distrust. Somehow that makes the lie worse.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "It's all sort of a blur."

"Okay." Quinn nods once, and then opens the cupboard above her head. "In terms of cereal, we've got Lucky Charms, Wheaties, Cheerios, some chocolately thing that Puck and Max like and-"

"I think I'm going to go." Rachel says suddenly. The words leave her mouth before she even thinks them. The urge to get away from Quinn Fabray is suddenly overwhelming. Something about seeing Quinn standing there, in her faded jeans and old, blue sweat-shirt looking at _cereal_ makes Rachel feel like she was about to have a panic attack.

Rachel expects Quinn to protest, but it's like she senses Rachel's anxiety and so she only licks her lips and nods. "Okay. Do you want your clothes? Your dress and shoes-"

"Uh, keep it," Rachel says, getting off the chair and backing away towards the door. "I'll get it some other time."

"Okay," Quinn says again.

"Okay," Rachel repeats her voice strangely high-pitched. What the hell was happening?

She fumbles on the door handle and finds herself out in the hallway before she even really said goodbye. It's like one minute she knew where she was, what she was doing and the next, the next minute she was staring out at a yellow brick road with munchkins dancing all around her. She leans against the grimy, smoke-covered wall and takes two shaky breaths. Quinn's voice rattles around in her head. _What did you mean last night when you said we could keep things simple?_

Before she can stop herself, she's pushing herself off that wall and walking down that yellow-brick road.

**...**

Two knocks. Just two knocks and Quinn opens the door. Rachel barely registers the surprise on the blonde's face before she charges past her.

"Okay, here's the thing," Rachel says whirling around and facing Quinn, who still looks mighty perplexed. "I'm getting married in six months," Rachel says. Boy, this was not the opener she had intended. Quinn's brow rises.

"Did you come back to tell me that, Rachel? Because I already know that-"

"No" she holds her hand up and wishes it wasn't trembling. "Just listen. I'm getting married, and well most women before their wedding, most women have a bachelorette party." Rachel clears her throat. "I believe it's a customary ritual for the bride to indulge in a night of inhibition and, well freedom before she is tied down in holy matrimony. As I have no close female friends in New York or LA, I thought that perhaps," she looks at Quinn pleadingly. "Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

Quinn nods tentatively. "You want me to throw you a bachelorette party? Here?"

Rachel would have laughed if she didn't feel like she was about to throw up. "No." She sighs. "What I'm proposing Quinn, is that these three weeks away from my fiancé could sort of act as my own…bachelorette party. It doesn't have to be a- a thing. I mean, like you said. You like to keep things simple, and I like you," she finishes lamely.

Quinn cocks her head to the side for a moment, trying to comprehend Rachel, before her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "O-oh. You mean—you want me to be like, your stripper?"

Rachel scoffs, "Well Quinn, when you put it like that, it just sounds crude."

"So let me get this straight," Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose, "You want to…go wild and essentially have an affair…with me for three weeks, and we'll keep it casual and string-less?"

Rachel sort of winces but nods.

Quinn stares at her for a long minute and Rachel feels something inside of her melting. "Okay," the blonde says finally.

"Okay?"

"Okay," Quinn says with a nod. "I'll think about it."

**...**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: ** Once again, your response to the previous chapter was overwhelming, so thank you so much. It's appreciated. I hope that most of your questions/concerns are answered in this chapter. If not...hopefully you'll stick along for the ride :)

**Chapter 7**

"_You like to keep things simple and I like you." _Rachel's voice plays over and over in her head, to the point where she just has to close her eyes and it's there, taunting her, driving her to the point of near-insanity. Quinn stretches out her leg and flips up the hot water faucet with her big toe causing the water around her rise precariously high, until the bubbles are almost at her chin.

"_Okay, I'll think about it."_ Her own voice flits through her mind and Quinn fights the urge to sink down into the bubbly wonderland and just stay there. _"I'll think about it."_ She practically tastes the bland euphemism in the statement. She knows, she _knew_, even in that moment that she wanted to do so much more than just think about it. When Rachel had turned back and knocked on her door, she'd unwittingly reached inside Quinn and unravelled something the young artist had been keeping tightly coiled. Since then, she's been coming undone at an alarming pace. Of course, she knows that Rachel's proposition is absurd and fantastical, but the point is _she made it_. And, Quinn finds herself struggling to keep from indulging in the fantasy. The mere thought of having Rachel to herself for three weeks is…ridiculously tempting, but…Quinn's sure there's a '_but'_ here somewhere and the sooner she finds it, the sooner she can put this whole idea behind her and go on with her life. She's still searching for it by the time the water's gone cold and the bubbles have all but disappeared.

It's a typical Sunday night, which means that by 10pm Max is curled up with his T-Rex, Puck is curled up with his X-Box and Quinn, well Quinn is supposed to be curled up with the profile of one of the new artists they're showing this week, except she can't do anything other than _mull_. It's exactly this mulling that leads her to flop down next to Puck in sleep shorts, an oversized t-shirt and her black-rimmed spectacles, because really, those contact lenses are a bitch and after falling asleep with them in on Saturday morning, she's convinced her eyeballs are about to drop out of her sockets. With great skill, Puck manages to take the beer she offers him without losing grip of his controller as he slaughters a zombie-UPS driver with a machete.

"What's up, buttercup?" he asks, when Quinn makes no move to speak or do anything other than aimlessly watch his overly buffed up avatar jump into a warehouse to acquire ammo. She knows he knows something must be up, because she rarely, if ever willingly sits down to watch him play unless she's kicking his ass at the latest _Super Mario _on Max's_ Wii_. She takes a sip of her own beer and watches him fist fight with an undead waitress before announcing,

"Rachel wants to sleep with me."

"FUCK!" Puck yells out and the waitress turns the tables – quite literally, she flips a diner table over and almost crushes Puck's soldier man. He presses 'pause' before snapping his head towards Quinn.

"What?"

"Rachel wants to have an affair, friends with benefits, whatever." Quinn doesn't even realise her hands are shaking until she tries to bring the beer to her mouth.

"She actually tell you this?"

"No, I saw it in a vision," she says dryly and Puck runs his hand over his shaven head, as if searching for a Mohawk, long-gone.

"Fuck, Q. What did you say?"

She looks down and shrugs a shoulder. Keep it light, she tells herself. "I said I'd think about it."

Puck leans back against the cushions with a heavy sigh that has Quinn looking up at him. His brown eyes are focused on her with an expression she's on seen on few occasions.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," he looks truly remorseful, "I mean, seventeen-year old me would kick my ass for saying this, but Quinn, you know you can't go through with it, right? I mean, you're like…" his eyes dart to the mantle for a brief moment, and to the pictures propped up there before looking back to her, "you're my bro, you know and I… I kind of love you. So as your bro, it's my duty to tell you that you can't be fuck buddies with Rachel, cause it'll just screw you up even more."

"Thanks," she says tonelessly.

"Nah, look. The only reason you're able to sleep with those other chicks is because you don't give a shit about their feelings or whatever. You're like a female Puckasaurus and it's awesome. But c'mon, Q, you and me both know that Rachel is different."

She wants to roll her eyes and deny it, but she can't, because honestly, Puck's seen too much, he knows too much, he was _there_ the day she got back from New York after seeing Rachel's debut performance in _Wicked_ and she barely spoke to anyone for a week. He was _there _when his mother and sister came over for Yom Kippur and she tensed up when Mrs Puckerman started going on about Hiram Berry's latest news about his daughter. He was there when they went to visit Shelby for Beth's 6th birthday party and the little girl couldn't stop talking about her 'sister' who bought her a pony for her birthday.

There's no point in denying it anymore, least of all to Puck, who as it turns out, has just given her the 'but' she's been looking for.

She nods and softly says, "You're right. I know you're right."

"Does she know how you feel about her?"

Quinn buries her head in her lap with a groan and shrugs. "I don't even know how I feel about her," she mumbles. "I mean, it was a high school crush, Puck. We're different people now."

"Yeah, that why you were eye-fucking each other across the bar on Friday?"

She punches his shoulder lightly, "Must you always be so vulgar?"

"I just call 'em how I see 'em, babe." He appraises her for a second. "Here." He thrusts the controller at her. "Sometimes it helps to just beat shit up."

After violently hacking apart an army of flesh-eating zombies, Quinn's inclined to agree.

...

Two beers, one packet of nacho corn-chips and a tally of dead zombies later, Quinn bids Puck a fond goodnight and heads off to bed. She's in the process of brushing her teeth when she notices the faded imprint on the mirror. _A star_. Obviously made with a finger on the steamy glass, now just a vague stain and a reminder of the brunette who has currently taken hostage of her senses.

Two rings. _This is a stupid idea._ Three rings. _Nothing good can come of this._ Four rings. _It's way too late to be –_

"Hello?"

"Rachel? Hi. It's me."

"Quinn." There's no denying the higher shift in cadence as she recognises Quinn's voice.

"Hi," Quinn says again, settling back against her pillows and trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. "I'm not bothering you am I?"

"No," Rachel's quick to say and Quinn hears shuffling on the other end as if Rachel's moving somewhere or packing something. "Not at all. I-um, I'm glad you called."

"You are?"

"Well yes," the brunette sounds slightly breathless and Quinn wonders what exactly she's doing. "I've wondering…if you've considered my…proposition." Her voice is steady, but she takes enough pauses in that sentence for Quinn to know that it can't be easy to say.

"I have-considered it," she replies.

"And?"

God, is this what a heart attack feels like? Is it possible for one's heart to beat _out_ of one's chest? "And I just don't think it's going to work, Rachel."

The silence on the other end is stifling, she finds herself pressing the receiver against her ear in hopes of hearing Rachel just _breathe_. "Rachel…you still there?"

Eventually, there's a tiny, "I'm here."

The voice is so small, so…wounded, that Quinn can feel her heart sink to the depth of her stomach. "It's just-"

"Quinn, really, you don't have to explain." Rachel sounds terser now.

"No, I do." She says, because she needs to make sense of it for herself more so than for Rachel anyway. "You see, it's not that I wasn't -" _Intrigued? Interested?_ Aw, hell Fabray. "- tempted. Because I was. I…am. It's just that we're friends, Rachel and it's hard to keep things simple between…friends." Did she say too much, she wonders? It all just came out, but somehow, it feels right, like this is the only way to go.

"I understand," is Rachel's soft reply.

"I don't want to do anything to screw up this friendship," Quinn says just as softly.

"I don't either." She hears Rachel's deep breath, "Quite honestly, I'm starting to see my suggestion as a momentary flight of insanity. I mean, what was I thinking, right?"

"That you wanted an escape from your obviously boring and mundane life as a fabulous movie-star?" Quinn tries for a joke which has Rachel chuckling weakly.

"Yeah, I guess that about covers it."

"Look," Quinn sits up, with new zeal, "We can still hang out and do all kinds of crazy shit."

Rachel chuckles loudly now, "_Crazy shit_?"

And Quinn blushes faintly despite the fact that she's alone in her bedroom. "Living with Puck has somewhat…broadened my vocabulary."

"Okay," Rachel says, a smile still apparent in her voice. "What exactly did you have in mind, Ms Fabray?"

"Well," Quinn settles back into her pillows, very much aware of the stupid grin plastered, "I was thinking we'd start with jello shots…"

...

Two hours later and Quinn's face hurts from that stupid grin. They've spoken about everything from Rachel's dog to Quinn's college obsession with Gustav Klimt and now she's biting back a yawn as Rachel proceeds to lecture her on the importance of hormone-free dairy products.

"Really, Quinn, you have to think about Max, I mean he's-"

"Do you want to go out with me?" It just comes out. One minute she's hearing the word lactose and the next her mouth is moving.

The line goes dead quiet and Quinn quickly amends, "As a friend, I mean. I have this stuffy work function tomorrow night. A showing for a new artist and I thought maybe -"

"I'd love to," Rachel says in that breathy voice that has her all warm inside and Quinn smiles.

"Awesome."

"Awesome," Rachel echoes with slight amusement before her breath hitches slightly "Oh wait! I can't."

"Oh. That's okay, I mean, it's just an idea," Quinn rushes to say, but Rachel's already talking over her,

"No, I've a late call tomorrow. We're doing an evening shoot, so it'll probably run until god knows what time."

"It's fine, Rach," she fights off another yawn. "We can do something another night, okay?"

"Yeah." Quinn tries not to feel hopeful by the fact that Rachel sounds genuinely disappointed that they won't be spending time together.

"Anyway, I should probably get to bed. Work tomorrow, you know."

Rachel's quiet for a moment before saying, "This was nice, talking I mean."

"Yeah," Curse this stupid grin, Quinn thinks. "Yeah, it was. Night, Rachel."

"Goodnight, Quinn."

...

"Quinn! Quinn, mija, where did you disappear off to?" Quinn cringes as Hector storms into her tiny office.

"Hectooor," she practically whines before pulling on the hem of her dress – her tight black dress that ends mid-thigh. "I can't go out there in this."

Hector snorts. "I've seen pictures of you in that tiny excuse for a skirt you wore in high-school. Are you honestly telling me that this is any different?"

She scowls at him. "This _is_ different. I'm not a cheerleader anymore."

"No, you're a successful assistant director at a prestigious art gallery and this is our newest artist's debut exhibition. You need to look the part and right now, you look - "

"Spectacular!" Paul gasps as he rounds the corner. "Oh, Quinnie!" His hands immediately come to his lips. "You wore it! I told you, you would look amazing! Didn't I Hec?"

Quinn raises her brow at her employer. "Is he crying?"

Hector chuckles, "Marc Jacobs tends to make him teary."

She takes a wary step back as Paul approaches her and begins tugging her neckline down. "There you go. Never be afraid to flash a little cleavage, especially in an original little black dress."

"I still can't believe you bought this by the way," Quinn huffs and he takes a step back to observe his work.

"Look, Hec, our little girl's all grown up."

Hector pats his husband's shoulder idly, before turning his attention back to Quinn. "Sweetheart, Leonard is out there and he's very interested in Georgia's nudes. Why don't you see if you can interest him further?"

Quinn's eyebrows shoot up. "What, on my own?"

Hector smiles. "You're the one who said you wanted more exposure and Leonard is the one you need to convince if you're ever going to get a showing here."

Quinn takes a trembling breath and nods. "Okay, I'm Quinn Fabray. I lead an army of Cheerios in my freshman year. I can do this."

"Damn right you can." Paul winks at her before she walks out on her 6-inch heels, silently thanking Sue Sylvester for those years of torturous balance exercises.

"So you grew up in Ohio? God, that must have been awful!" Leonard Banks laughs his smug laugh and shakes his head so hard, Quinn's worried his toupee's about to go flying.

"It had its moments," she says with a fixed smile on her face.

"And yet you ended up at one of the most prestigious art schools. How did you manage that?"

"Hard work," Quinn's smile grows tighter and forces her eyebrow to remain down. It's like a tic. "I got a partial scholarship and I worked off the rest."

"Impressive." Bank's eyes drift down to her chest. "I can see why Hector speaks so highly of you."

"Yes, well…Hector's a great boss. And he's done amazing things with this gallery."

"Oh, no need to convince me of that, Ms Fabray. This exhibition alone …" His voice drifts off and it suddenly hits her. Rod Remington! That's who Leonard Banks reminds her of. He's got the same smug, pompous, reptilian charm that exuded from the news anchor. Last she heard, old Rod was mauled by bears while at a nudist retreat in Michigan.

"Well, Mr Banks, I assure you," Quinn slips effortlessly back into the conversation, "Georgia will be only too happy to part with her -"

A sudden commotion at the doors has both of them turning and suddenly Paul's behind her, his eyes shining with excitement.

"There's a throng of paparazzi outside. Actual paparazzi!"

Quinn glances at Banks, "Excuse me a moment."

"What's going on?" she asks, once she and Paul are further away.

The older man shrugs. "I don't know, but I heard a rumour that Johnny Depp was filming something in Connecticut. Do you think he stopped by?"

"For Georgia's opening?" Quinn asks dryly.

Paul shrugs. "You did wonders with the advertising, darling." Suddenly Paul clutches his heart and his eyes along with a few other people on the room, who attempt to stare more discretely, fall on the young woman, now making her way towards Quinn. "Oh, my god, it's Rachel Berry!"

Rachel Berry indeed.

Wearing a flirty lemon chiffon cocktail dress with hair, tumbling in chocolate waves over her shoulders, she walks towards Quinn all legs and teeth, smiling broadly and for a moment, the blonde is quite certain her heart has dropped to her panties.

With absolutely no subtlety, Paul leans towards her and whispers, "Do you _know _her?"

Before Quinn answers, Rachel is there, in front of her, all legs and teeth and…oh god, she smells like honeysuckle and…something else, something…spicy. Cinnamon maybe.

"Hi," Rachel says a little shyly now that she's actually there.

"Hi," Quinn mimics, suddenly breathless. Is this what they mean when they say that someone can take your breath away?

Paul looks between them for a moment before loudly and obnoxiously clearing his throat.

"Oh," Quinn inclines her head towards him. "Rachel, this is Paul Dreyer. He's married to my boss. Paul, this is-"

"Rachel Berry," Paul holds out his hand with a wide grin. "It is an honour. I'm a huge fan. The hugest. I was telling my husband just last week that you're the next Barbra and Meryl combined. You're like, Beryl." He flushes and wipes his hand over his brow. "I'm sorry, I'm making a fool of myself. It's just. I've seen _Wicked_ twice and, well you were fabulous, but I must say, your performance in _Les Mis_ was…well it was devastatingly good. I have to ask, why, oh why have you turned your back on the theatre? Not, that you don't shine on the silver screen, because your performance in _Red Periphery_ was outstanding, but really, the stage is where you belong and, oh dear, I'm rambling." He takes a deep breath.

Rachel smiles broadly. "Paul, firstly thank you. It's always a joy to hear from someone so knowledgeable of the arts."

Quinn marvels as Rachel speaks. There's not a hint of irony or mockery in her tone. She truly means what she says. It's like she's made for this.

"And being compared to the great Barbra and Meryl is flattering, but a little premature, I mean, at least, let me get that Oscar first." She winks and Paul giggles delightfully. "As for the stage, well," her smile falters slightly and Quinn frowns. "We all need a little break from the things we love."

Paul nods sagely. "Of course." He beams at her until Quinn says,

"Hey, Rach, you have to try the chicken spring rolls, they're amazing!"

"But Quinn, I'm-"

"Paul, do know if there are any more?"

Paul's face lights up. "For Ms Berry, I will find some." He grins at her one last time. "Be right back."

"Quinn!" Rachel says, lightly swatting her arm once Paul had disappeared into the crowd, "That was mean!"

Quinn smirks and pulls Rachel aside, trying to ignore the curious gazes of the rest of the room, who suddenly find Ms Rachel Berry more interesting than the artwork on the walls.

"How come you weren't this popular when we went out last week?" Quinn asks once they've reached a semi secluded area next to the stairwell.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "The grand entrance. I'm sorry. They followed me from the set. Last week I managed to evade the paps. If no-one expects a celebrity to be around, they don't recognise one, but the minute those flashes go off, it's like…" she makes jazz hands which makes Quinn laugh.

"That bad huh?"

"It's not always bad, but," she shrugs. "I, um. I tried to call, to tell you I got off early, but you didn't pick up."

"Oh," Quinn looks apologetic. "I left my phone in my office." She looks down," And I don't really have any pockets." She offers Rachel a wry smile and the brunette bites down on her lower lip.

"You look very pretty tonight, Quinn," she says it almost reverently and Quinn feels a rush of heat run through her.

"Thanks," she replies, trying to keep her voice neutral. "You look okay, I guess."

Rachel's brow furrows for a second before she realises that Quinn's messing with her. "Yes, I've come a long way from animal sweaters and Mary-Janes."

"I liked your animal sweaters," Quinn admits softly, feeling a blush creep up her neck.

"No you didn't," Rachel says, her voice laced with scepticism.

"I did though," Quinn counters. "Like, remember when Brittany brought in the whole carousal-horse look?"

"Don't remind me." Rachel sheepish. "I tried so hard, didn't I?"

Quinn shrugs a shoulder. "We all tried hard, Rachel. You succeeded," she says softly.

Rachel brings her warm, brown gaze up to Quinn's and says, "So did you. Look around. I'd say you did alright for yourself."

"Listen to us being all self-congratulatory," Quinn laughs softly before sobering up. Rachel's watching her with those eyes, those big doe eyes that make her feel like she's melting and shattering all at the same time. "Come on," she says, impulsively reaching for Rachel's hand. "I want to show you something."

They make a bee-line past Paul who is animatedly caught up in a conversation with one of their older patrons, no doubt telling her of his fateful encounter. And Quinn leads Rachel out of the main hall into a dark corridor, where the rest of the artwork is kept, that which is not on display tonight.

"Where are we?" Rachel whispers, her grip tightening around Quinn's fingers.

"You'll see," Quinn replies and flicks on a light switch. The room lights up yet Rachel's hand remains tightly clasped in hers.

They're in a narrow passage, lined with paintings, not yet framed. Some are still on the ground, stacked against each other. "I call it the Tunnel of the Unknown," Quinn says. "All local artists who have submitted their work for display but were rejected by the bigwigs for whatever reason. And they're stored here, hoping that one day, they'll see the light."

Rachel stares in wonder at the work in the tiny corridor. "This is amazing. Do-do all galleries do this?"

"No," Quinn laughs softly. "No, but Hector has a soft spot for the underdogs. I think he's keeping them because he plans to start his own gallery some day and these are the ones he'll use, or at least, the ones the artist have given him permission to use."

Rachel moves to the corner of the room, where a large canvas hangs in the middle of an empty space. "This one's lonely," she says softly. "But so beautiful."

Quinn watches with a lump in her throat as Rachel's fingers trace over the dark green and black serrations in the canvas. "I wonder what the words mean," she whispers, looking up and the painting as a whole. The artist had scribbled what looked like lyrics onto newspaper with a sharpie and varnished it over the image before painting light greens and greys over it.

"It's a poem," Quinn murmurs, unable to help herself. She comes up behind Rachel and…it's ginger, she thinks suddenly. Rachel smells like honeysuckle and a drop of ginger and it's intoxicating.

"Hmm?" she turns ever so slightly and their proximity is made obvious. Quinn thinks about moving back, but that would be even more obvious, so instead she points towards the painting.

"The text is a poem. It's by Neruda."

"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved," Rachel begins to read, "in secret, between the shadow and the soul."

"I love you as the plant that never blooms," Quinn continues, her heart pounding against her ribcage like a bird yearning for flight. "but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers," Rachel turns to her and inhales lightly when she realises that Quinn's eyes are not on the painting, but on her face. "thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."

"It's beautiful," Rachel murmurs, her eyes flickering between Quinn's lips which were just mouthing the poem, to her eyes which are a deep shade of honey-gold. "How do you know it?"

"I painted it," Quinn says simply. Then bites her lip almost shyly. "I wasn't going to tell you that."

"I'm glad you did," Rachel says and moves closer and alarm bells start ringing in Quinn's head also, she's pretty sure that bird escaped, because she can no longer feel her heart beating. Instead, everything has gone sort of numb.

"Rachel," Quinn's voice carries a warning but also an edge of yearning that she can't quite disguise.

"Quinn," Rachel licks her lips and drags her gaze up Quinn's face. Damn those full-blown pupils, she thinks. "I, um" Rachel stammers as if she really has no idea what she wants to say. "I was wondering…"

"Yes?" Okay. She can practically feel Rachel's breath on her cheek, she can smell her skin, she can count her eyelashes, were they any closer, they'd be wearing each other's skins. This is the point where she steps back. This is the point where she remembers everything she said on the phone, everything Puck said to her, and step back. Except that whole self-control thing she used to be so good at, well years of neglect has made it lazy and right now it's refusing to perform and Quinn finds herself woefully low on willpower.

So, when Rachel leans up just a fraction, she barely hesitates before –

"Quinn! Thank god! There you are!"

"_Motherfucker!"_ She says it under her breath, but by the look on Rachel's face she's pretty sure the brunette heard her.

Hector's rushing towards them, holding out her cellphone. "It's Noah on the line," the older man says hastily.

Quinn casts Rachel a look as if to say, "sorry my boss just interrupted our almost make-out session, but maybe it was for the best anyway."

"Puck?" she allows herself to sound annoyed, because he's probably calling to ask where she left the remote or something.

"Quinn," his voice is strained and she immediately frowns.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Max. He's burning up. I don't know what to do, Quinn. I think the little dude's really sick."

Her entire world suddenly closes in and her focal point becomes getting home as soon as possible. "I'll be right there," she says.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: ** Apologies for the long wait, I was moving across continents. I hope this lives up to your expectations. Enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

She's barely inside her room when her phone rings. Considering it's past 11pm and she's just left the gallery, Rachel rushes to answer, convincing herself that it's Quinn, asking for her help. It has to be Quinn, right? Because the way the blonde had immediately shut off after her phone call from Puck, the way she had rejected Rachel's offer to help with Max claiming she didn't want "hordes of photographers swarming her apartment," that couldn't have been the last she'd heard of Quinn for the night, not after they'd almost, not after –

"Rachel? Thank god I caught you!"

But it's not Quinn. And the stab of disappointment is near fatal.

"Kurt?" she steadies her voice as general curiosity takes hold. It's not that she isn't happy to hear from him. In fact, it's been almost a week since they've spoken which in Rachel and Kurt Land is way too long. But he usually texts her beforehand to see if she's on set or not and she knows for a fact that he's supposed to be in Milan this week for some fashion thing, which is why they haven't spoken for so long – the time difference is a drag. But now he's calling and judging by the sound of his 'hypertension' voice, something's wrong.

"Rach, have you been on the internet recently? Seen Perez?"

"What?" She shrugs off her coat while precariously cradling the phone between her shoulder and cheek. "No, I've been…preoccupied. Why, has David sunbathed nude again?"

"I wish," Kurt says wistfully, before his tone changes abruptly, "Rachel, I'm sending you a link. Open it. Also, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Me?" Her voice raises two octaves. What could Kurt possibly be talking about? Her iPhone buzzes as the email comes through and she opens it, keeping Kurt on speaker. "Kurt, your cryptic comments are really not appre- Oh dear God!"

The YouTube video begins buffering and there she is, in full 1800 HD. Swaying slightly, giggling and belting out lyrics from the _Rocky Horror_ soundtrack – to a restaurant audience.

"Rachel? Are you there? Sweetie, you haven't passed out have you?"

"N-no," she manages weakly. "I'm here. Mortified, but here." The clip ends as a hand reaches out behind her and drags her down to her seat. The owner of the hand is thankfully obscured from the video. Rachel doubts that Quinn would appreciate the 1.3 million hits at this point.

"I don't understand," Kurt's voice is more high-pitched than her own. "Why didn't Carey do damage control the second this came out?"

"Carey's gone," Rachel replies softly, falling back onto the not-so-comfortable couch with a sigh.

"What do you mean Carey's gone," Kurt's voice has now reached a pitch that only bats and dogs would hear.

"I fired him two weeks ago."

"But-no. No, no, no. He was going to ask me out. You couldn't have."

"Glad to know this is all about you," she says wryly.

"Well, I'm not the one who fired him. Seriously, Rachel. You can't not have a publicist. Especially when things like this happen. What were you doing getting drunk anyway? You never get drunk in public. That's rule number 6, remember?"

"I know, I know," she sticks her lips out in frustrated pout, a force of habit. "It's just, things were a little overwhelming and Quinn was saying things and I needed-"

"QUINN?" Yep, there are definitely a couple of dogs howling in the background. "As in Fabray?"

"Yes, Kurt. Quinn Fabray."

"How on earth did you manage to find yourself out with _her_?"

She bristles slightly at Kurt's tone. It's not that he has anything against Quinn, she's pretty sure of that, but the implication that she and Rachel being…together in any sense is cause for such a startling reaction, makes her eye twitch.

"We…reconnected." Rachel says succinctly.

"Oh sweet Valentino, Rachel Berry, what did you do?" The accusation is thick in Kurt's voice and she hates, _hates _that he knows her so well.

"I-nothing," she says rather petulantly. "I'm just…" she sighs and groans all at once.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," Kurt says and suddenly Rachel feels as if she's about to cry, because this is Kurt, Kurt who knows her, maybe better than anyone else on the planet. Kurt who's been there for her though auditions and rejections and call-backs and fame. Kurt who never once asked for anything, other than the numbers of her gay (and sometimes _not_ so gay) co-stars. Kurt who knew high-school Rachel Berry and still loved her, even now.

Rachel sniffles a little and settles back into the couch cushions. "Do remember, when we first got to New York and I um, I started dating that guy -"

"Duncan," Kurt says automatically. "Gorgeous face, terrible dress sense, body like a swimmer, inevitable asswipe."

"Yes," she replies, slightly amused. "He broke up with me because-"

"Because you were still hung up on my dear brother, yes, Rachel, I remember."

"Kurt, for goodness sake, would you stop interrupting?"

"Sorry," he says sheepishly on the other end. "Please continue."

"Okay, well," Rachel takes a deep breath. Is she really ready to tell him this? God, is she ready to say it out loud at all? She's barely acknowledged it to herself. Layers and layers of denial seem to have calcified over the years and cracking through those hardened emotions, like a spoon through the sugared layer of a crème brulee, is no easy task, even for someone as emotionally intelligent as herself.

"It wasn't Finn," Rachel says softly.

"Come again?"

"It wasn't Finn," she repeats, even softer now, as if the shadows in the empty room are listening in on her confession.

"I don't understand," Kurt's voice unconsciously mimics hers as it drops lower. "Who then if not – oh my god!"

"Kurt!" Rachel feels as though her heart is about to leap from her chest, she suddenly feels unsafe, like now that this information is out there, she's vulnerable. "Kurt, please," she's almost begging. What for, she's not quite sure.

"It was her," he says, his voice echoing an epiphany. "You were in love with Quinn Fabray."

Seven words. Those seven words come tumbling out of Kurt's mouth and suddenly she's coming apart. Clutching the phone to her cheek like and sobbing against it, Rachel only nods.

"Oh, honey," Kurt soothes as best he can against the other end of the line.

"I'm not," Rachel sniffs, desperately trying to pull herself together. "I don't have those feelings anymore," she says resolutely. "I mean, I have David now. I love David. It's-it's just, sometimes, it's hard to forget that I'm not that 17-year old girl anymore, you know? I didn't even know I was still, I mean, I thought I would be fine, but seeing her again, I find myself saying things I'd never say and doing things I'd never…" she trails off.

"Rachel, has anything happened?"

"No," she says quickly, guilt attacking her like a swarm of bees as the memory of Quinn's warm breath on her cheek washes through her. "No, of course not. It's just…things get confusing."

"I know," Kurt says softly. "Every time I see an interview with Blaine I still get a little weak inside, even when I was with Andrew who was…well, I mean you saw Andrew."

"It's different though," she counters wiping her nose on the back of her hand like a five-year old. "You and Blaine actually had a relationship. You guys were friends, lovers. With Quinn, well it was all just fantasy and pipe dreams. I barely knew her, Kurt. We never had…anything."

Kurt is silent for a long time before he says, "Are you sure about that?"

Rachel's heart immediately begins to pound again. "Y-yes. Of course. I was dating Finn, you know that."

"That's not what I mean, Rachel. Emotionally, you and Quinn have always been…complicated. In high school, you two seemed connected in this strange push and pull. Like you were circling each other's orbits. I know you Rachel. You wouldn't be this…intense about her if there wasn't something." he sighs. "Just be careful."

"I love David," she says quietly. The room suddenly seems darker, as if a streetlight has been turned off somewhere outside.

"I know you do."

"And we're getting married."

"Rachel-" Kurt begins tentatively.

"We're getting married," she says firmly.

"Honey, it's okay to feel confused."

"Is that what this is, Kurt?" she asks softly, as if afraid to hear the answer.

"Only you can answer that, honey."

...

Half an hour later and Rachel is completely unhinged. The phone call with Kurt has left her feeling slit open and raw, like the simplest touch would leave her damaged. This is not how she anticipated the night would go. She had expected to meet up with Quinn at the gallery, maybe go for drinks after, maybe…Rachel sighs. As a compulsive fantasist, she's always been prone to disappointment. And now the harsh slap of reality is cold and unwelcome and leaves her feeling lost.

Sleep would be the best option, sleep would wash away the night and the conversation with Kurt and the deluge of unwanted emotions and the memory of Quinn's distant eyes as she told Rachel that she's rather deal with the home situation on her own. It was enough to remind Rachel that she's only been back in Quinn's life for a little over a week and she has absolutely no claim on the woman who Quinn has become. Sure they were becoming friends, really good friends, but Rachel is not a part of Quinn's life, of her world, and the reality is that by leaving in two weeks, Rachel never really will be. The scariest thing is how much that realisation hurts.

Unthinkingly, Rachel runs her fingers over her lips and realises that no amount of sleep will banish the memory of Quinn leaning down tonight, a breath away from her, her eyes filled with what could only be identified as _want_. It's not like she's never had an erotic experience. At twenty-six, Rachel can honestly say that she considers herself relatively adventurous regarding sex and bodily pleasures, but this goes beyond that, this tugs at something inside of her and refuses to let go. Because what she cannot stop thinking about, what she could not bear to divulge to Kurt, is not the physical aspect of the experience, but the sensory one. The fact that underneath that scent of lotion that smelt like nectarines and pineapples, Rachel inhaled something purer, something just Quinn, something that flooded her senses and took her back to June 2012 and for a glorious moment, she was seventeen again.

...

_She glanced around the room and saw her friends. Friends. A wayward group of people she never thought she'd ever socialise with, let alone come to love. Yet here they were, hours after throwing their caps in the air as new graduates, McKinley High's Glee Club found themselves celebrating their freedom at Noah Puckerman's infamous grad party. Cheerios and football jocks walked past AV Club nerds and Brainiacs and, stripped from their high school moulds, they were indistinguishable from each other. The playing field had been evened and Rachel sighed. She had made it, she had survived high school. Her eyes followed the paths of her various glee club members and she laughed, half because she'd just had her third wine-cooler and half because she could see them all perfectly 'in-character' and for some reason, that both comforted and amused her. She watched Mercedes light up as Shane Tinsely whispered something in her ear. Puck was near them, attempting to chat up a girl from her AP History class. Rachel was surprised by the fact that the girl – what was her name again – looked like she was actually shooting Puck down, which of course just made him try harder. She shook her head as her eyes landed on Santana and Brittany who were dry-humping on the dance-floor, much to the delight of the football team, beside them Kurt was doing some move that resembled an epileptic velociraptor while Blaine affectionately laughed and danced beside him. Mike and Tina were making out on the stairs while Artie rolled around, taking pictures with his brand new camera. _

_Then there was Finn. Finn who stood in the corner on the opposite side of the room, Finn who played eye-tag with her and shot her the most forlorn looks a human being could possibly manage. They'd broken up three days before graduation and it was…difficult. They both knew it was inevitable. She was bound for New York. Finn was bound for a degree in Education Technology at the Central Ohio Technical College. That didn't make it any less painful. They had both acknowledged that somewhere between the stress of finals and the excitement of prom that part of their relationship had sort of fizzled out. They barely went out, hardly ever touched and the last time they had made love, Rachel had, as Cosmopolitan Magazine so aptly put it, 'faked it', so losing Finn as a boyfriend didn't really hurt so much. But she felt like she was losing her partner, her co-captain and in some senses, her best friend. Sure, Finn had his weaknesses, but he was also the first boy to love her, the first person to make her feel worthy, the first real friend she'd made in glee. _

_And at the end of the day, that was what hurt the most. _

_She tore her eyes away from him, because honestly, the pity party wasn't helping, and somewhere out there was a fourth wine-cooler with her name on it. This was her last week in Lima anyway, she figured she might as well live it up. _

_Halfway through said wine-cooler, Rachel felt hot. Like, 'oh my god, I need to take my clothes off or I'm gonna puke hot' and suddenly the room seemed a lot smaller and Finn's gaze a lot colder. And all she needed was air._

_The Puckerman garden was slightly overgrown and smelled like overripe figs, but it served its purpose. The summer night breeze whipped around her face and she immediately felt better. Away from the constant blare of the speakers, she found the solitude comforting, at least until a movement under the large Black Walnut tree caused her to practically jump out of her skin. _

"_Quinn?"_

_Leaning with her back against the tree, staring up at the sky, Quinn's head turned only slightly in Rachel's direction. Something about her reminded the brunette of a cat, a sleek, dangerous cat. _

"_Hi."_

_Rachel felt awash with a strange mixture of relief and nervousness. "Quinn! What are you doing out here?" She walked towards her, feeling the long grass tickle her legs." I thought you had left. I mean, I had wondered where you had disappeared to and Santana said-"_

"_I just needed some air. And some alone time," Quinn said with a delicate arch of her eyebrow when Rachel stopped before her and leaned against the thick trunk. _

"_Me too," she said, with a small smile, looking up at the other girl, wondering if she was going to be sent away or allowed to stay. When Quinn sighed and turned her gaze back to that starry sky, Rachel let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. _

"_I really liked your speech," she said after what felt like hours of silence. _

_Quinn barely moved, in fact, she barely spoke. Her voice was so soft that Rachel had to lean closer to hear the whispered, "Thanks."_

"_There are better things ahead than any we leave behind."_

_That honeyed gaze turned towards her. "What?"_

"_That's what you said, right?" Rachel felt strangely warm again. Except this time, she was fairly certain it had little to do with her levels of inebriation. "In your speech."_

_Quinn's mouth quirked up for a moment before she nodded. "It's a quote by C.S Lewis." She turned, leaning her shoulder against the tree so as to face Rachel fully and for a second, a full second, Rachel swore her heart stopped beating. Or maybe it started beating so fast she couldn't feel it any more. Quinn's lips parted and she began to speak, quoting the entire phrase, "Has the world been so kind to you that you should leave behind without regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind."_

"_Do you believe that?" Rachel asked a little breathlessly. _

_Quinn was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the summer night surrounded them. Cicadas, frogs and the faint throb of music from the house. They were so close, that Rachel could hear the slight inhalation of breath from Quinn just before she sighed. Rachel was about to ask the question again when Quinn finally spoke. "I think I have to."_

"_Quinn?"_

"_Yeah?"_

_She couldn't look at her. To look at her would have meant death and life and so much more than Rachel could even begin to comprehend. So she looked down, noticing the spiralling dandelions in between the long grass. "I-"_

"_You what?"_

"_You know what I regret?" Rachel finally looked up at her, long enough to see Quinn's eyebrow arched in a faintly amused way. There was no malice in her expression though and something in Rachel softened. _

"_You're going to tell me anyway."_

"_I regret not spending more time being your friend this year."_

_And then it happened. It was subtle, but she was close enough to see it. Quinn's face changed. The slightly playful expression was gone and replaced with something vague, something unreadable. For a moment, Rachel thought she looked scared. _

"_Rachel, I -" she watched with wide-eyed fascination as Quinn's tongue darted out to wet her lips before she spoke. _

"_Yeah?"_

"_I should go." Quinn moved to walk past her and before she even realised what she was doing, Rachel was reaching out, grasping at the hem of Quinn's shirt._

_It suddenly occurred to her, that she would do anything, say anything just to spend a few more moments with Quinn Fabray. Actually, a lot more suddenly occurred to her, but she wasn't willing to process it all yet. "Wait, don't. Did I –did I say something? I'm sorry. I think I've had too many wine coolers. We can, we can just stand here, okay? Don't go. Please."_

_She watched the internal struggle Quinn seemed to be having with leaving or staying. It was mesmerizing, Rachel thought, how the blonde could go from incredibly strong to frighteningly vulnerable in seconds. She was staring at Rachel now, her lip caught between her teeth, her eyes bright, shining with stars and darkened with shadows. Quinn sighed tremblingly as she seemed to come to a decision. _

"_You know what I regret, Rachel?" she asked, taking a step forward, essentially pining Rachel against the tree trunk._

_Rachel shook her head, not trusting her vocal chords to not ruin this incredibly tenuous moment. Quinn was breathing hard against her, her body pressed up against Rachel's in all the right places and with every rise and fall of her chest, something in Rachel shattered just a little. She smelled like cranberry wine coolers, Rachel thought. That and…something else. For a moment, Rachel wondered if Quinn tasted like cranberries too. She looked up into Quinn's inky pupils and sighed against her. There was no denying what Quinn wanted, or what she intended but under the desire Rachel recognised the fear. The blonde looked down as if suddenly ashamed of her actions._

_Tentatively, Rachel reached up and ran her index finger along the side of Quinn's cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. "It's okay," Rachel murmured, urging her to look up. "Quinn."_

_The name on her tongue was like the kiss that awoke Aurora. Quinn's gold-flecked gaze flickered upwards and it was filled with such need, such emotion, that Rachel felt moments away from saying something stupid, something that was on the tip of her tongue and would almost certainly scare the blonde away. Luckily, she was saved from this temptation when Quinn's mouth slowly descended and closed over hers._

_There was no crashing of lips, no crazy battling of tongues or ripping of clothing. It was soft and hesitant and amazingly fragile. Yet there was such power behind this one kiss, such intensity that Rachel found herself trembling against the taller girl. Quinn's hands found her hips and held on, securing her and Rachel felt both weightless and rooted. At least until she felt Quinn's tongue trace the seam of her mouth, encouraging her to open it. And so she did and Quinn's tongue languorously found hers and the kiss was slow and heady and Rachel felt herself drowning - then Quinn moaned. She moaned and something snapped. The heat that was boiling inside of them in slow bubbles suddenly seemed to erupt and Rachel rose up on her toes, essentially rubbing herself up against Quinn who was now panting into her mouth. She tangled her fingers in the blonde's short, silky hair and tugged her down. Hard. The flash of pain caused Quinn to bite down on Rachel's lip which only made her moan loudly against Quinn. For a brief second, Rachel wondered about this new and interesting reaction towards pain, but then there was no thinking, because Quinn's hips had begun grinding against hers and the throbbing in her chest had spread to a warmth in her belly which had moved even further south. And suddenly the only word running through her head was "more". More everything. More touching, more kissing, more Quinn. Brazenly, Rachel intertwined her hands with Quinn's, which were still digging into her hips and brought them up to her breasts. The blonde immediately gasped and in a delicious reaction, thrust her hips hard into Rachel. _

_When Quinn's flat tongue dragged over Rachel's neck and she began to suck, the brunette made a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan. She's never guessed that physical intimacy with another person could feel this…intimate. Suddenly she was having visions of her bedroom and Quinn and nudity and Quinn and moaning and Quinn and words like 'want', 'forever', 'perfect' flitted though her head and Rachel knew, deep down, she knew she was in trouble. But then Quinn's mouth was back on hers and before their tongues connected, she heard the blonde brokenly utter, "Rachel, please," and then they were falling. Rachel wasn't sure what Quinn was asking her for, but at this point, she was prepared to give her anything and everything. When Quinn sucked on her tongue, Rachel inadvertently bucked into her and Quinn pulled away suddenly. _

_For the first time since their lips had connected, they made eye-contact. Quinn's pupils were blown, her hair messy, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed and the only thing running through Rachel's mind were three words she didn't dare utter. Instead, she licked her lips, tasting a hint of Quinn's cinnamint lip gloss on them, and waited. _

_But Quinn said nothing. And after a few seconds of searching Rachel's face, as if looking for an answer she desperately needed, the blonde leaned down, pressed a soft, chaste kiss against Rachel's cheek and walked away. _

_Rachel stayed out there for at least twenty more minutes, waiting for her heart to stop thudding, waiting to her breathing to return to normal, waiting for Quinn to come back to her. When it seemed like none of those things were due to occur, she wiped her eyes, drove home and began packing for New York._

_..._

She had planned on sleeping late. She's off for the next two days, having only night shoots and Rachel wanted to play tourist and spend her days lazing around. She had thought she could convince Quinn to play tour-guide, but after the previous night and her phone call with Kurt, she had decided that perhaps a bit of space from Quinn would be for the best. So at 8:30, Rachel is not expecting her cell phone to ring and she is certainly not expecting Quinn's voice on the other end.

"Hey. Do you think you could come over? I need your help."

"Of course, I'll be right there." Rachel puts the phone down and falls back into the pillows with a heavy sigh. She never could deny Quinn Fabray anything.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:**Have I told you lately that you guys are my favourite? No? Well You guys are my favourite. Prepare for some serious Quinntrospection ahead.

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

Quinn pulls the thermometer out from under Max's armpit. The little boy squirms but doesn't say much. _102 degrees_. The fever isn't dropping but it isn't rising either. The doctor said it would stay at this range for a few hours at least, but Quinn had hoped that the Tylenol would have brought it down by now.

"Quinn?" Max looks up at her through tired eyes.

"Yes, sweetheart?" She brushes the hair off of his clammy forehead.

"Is my mama comin' soon?"

Quinn forces herself to smile, despite the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "Sure she is, Nugget. She's just really busy looking for a new home for you right now."

Max sniffles and pulls Tony the T-Rex closer. "I don't feel good."

"I know, baby." She tenderly smooths down his eyebrows and runs her thumb down the bridge of his nose. "I know, but the doctor said you'll feel better real soon. Just no scratching, okay?"

He yawns and nods weakly. "Okay, Quinn. No scwatchin'."

Quinn bites down on her lip as she watches Max slowly drift into sleep. His breath comes out in shallow puffs because of the fever. She hates feeling this helpless, this inept. Children get sick, Quinn knows this, and the doctor said that he'd be fine, but Quinn can't stop thinking that this is not what she had signed up for. She doesn't know _how_ to do this. Not when he looks at her with those big green eyes and asks when he'll see his mommy again.

With a sigh, she slinks off the bed and makes for her room. She tries, for the fourth time, to dial a number she was told to use only in emergencies. Well, the fact is, Quinn is tired. She's tired of the responsibility and the stress and the rearranging of her life. She adores Max – what sane person wouldn't? He's smart and cute and funny and been around her long enough to have picked up a wicked sense of humor, which she loves. But she's 26-years old and right now, she isn't any more prepared to have a kid than she was four weeks ago when Frannie first showed up on her doorstep. She's also grown up enough (and had enough months of therapy) to admit that, although she loves Beth, giving her up at sixteen was one of the best things she could have done for both herself and that baby. Of course she still dreams about what it would have been like to have that little girl look up at her and call her 'mommy', of course, she still has moments when she sees pictures of Beth and Shelby and she feels as though something inside of her is breaking apart. She doubts those feelings will ever truly disappear. Quite honestly, she doesn't know if she wants them to. She's tethered to that Beth and always will be, but what she is not, is a mother, and that's something she's had to come to accept and embrace. And she did. She was finally settled when Francine pushed this little person into her life and forced her to play mommy. Most days, it's easy. They've fallen into a routine and with Puck around; it's difficult to imagine that the little imp was ever not part of their weird little family, but, at moments like these, moments when he's looking up at her with those big vulnerable eyes, Quinn wants to yell and shake Frannie and ask her how the hell she could leave her son, her baby all alone with someone who doesn't really have the slightest clue what they're doing.

Her fingers are trembling slightly as she punches the numbers in, her heart beats wildly as it rings. What Quinn does not expect is the male voice that answers. "Hello?"

"H-hello?" She falters. "I'm looking for Francine Fabray-Lewis."

There's a moment of silence before he says, "How did you get this number?"

Quinn swallows. This is all sounding way too ominous for her liking. What the hell is Francine up to? "She gave it to me. Tell her I need to speak to her immediately. It's regarding Maximillian." If that doesn't get her attention, Quinn thinks, she has no idea what will.

There's no answer from the male voice, only shuffling and in seconds, her sister's frantic voice is on the other end. "Quinnie? It's me. Is he okay?"

"Fran, what the hell?" is the first thing to come spewing out of Quinn's mouth. She's tired and frustrated with this cloak and daggers routine.

"I'm sorry I haven't contacted you before this," Frannie's says in a rush. "How's Maxie? Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Quinn sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She feels a migraine coming on. She hasn't had one of those since her senior year of college. "He got sick last night and we took him to the emergency room. Turns out it's chickenpox."

"Chickenpox?"

"Yeah." She sits down at the edge of her bed. "I tried to call you last night. The doctor wanted to know if he'd gotten his booster shot yet and I didn't know."

"He hasn't," Frannie whispers, sounding like she's close to tears. "I was going to take him after his fifth birthday. They say," she sniffs, "They say it's better to take them just before they start kindergarten."

"Yeah, well…" Quinn wants to be angry, she wants to sound as pissed as she felt three hours ago when she was sitting in the paediatrician's office with a crying kid, but hearing her sister sound so deflated, so incredibly…broken has her softening. "He's okay now," she says finally. "A little itchy, but okay."

"Okay," Frannie replies, obviously crying now. "Thank you, Quinnie. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"Where are you? And who was that guy that answered?"

"He-he's my lawyer."

"Your lawyer?" Quinn sounds unconvinced.

"My friend." Frannie amends. "The one I told you about. The one who's helping me."

"Helping you with what?" She realises her voice sounds desperate, but she's worried and if she's honest with herself, rather freaked out by the fact that her big sister, the one who's always had her shit together sounds so incredibly…untogether. "Frannie, what the hell is going on?"

Frannie takes a trembling breath on the other line before saying, "Robert's been charged with tax evasion and embezzlement. They can't find him anywhere."

"Oh my god."

"He's powerful, Quinn." Frannie continues. "If he wants to disappear, he can. I just," she makes a little choking noise; "I'm terrified he's going to try and take Max with him."

"Francine - " Quinn's heart is thudding against her ribcage. She can't remember the last time she was this legitimately scared. "Where are you?" she breathes.

"I'm safe." Her sister's voice is steady now. "But I need to know that Max is with someone I trust. Just until they find Robert."

"What about a restraining order? Protective custody? Why does it have to be this way?" Quinn's voice is close to cracking.

"You don't know how powerful Robert is, Quinn. Who he has in his back pocket."

Quinn wants to cry. She feels like she's suddenly been teleported straight into the middle of a John Grisham novel.

"You're safe?" she asks softly.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," she says. "I'll keep Max with me for as long as you need, but I swear to God, Frannie, that little boy needs his mom, so you get back here as soon as you can."

"I will," her sister promises.

"And answer your damn phone when I call," she says.

"Quinnie, language," Frannie chastises lightly and Quinn rolls her eyes. "Give him a kiss for me."

"Yeah," she sighs. "Look I have to go."

"Thank you, Quinn," Francine says softly before Quinn ends the call.

She feels seconds away from a full-blown meltdown when Puck sticks his head around the corner.

"You okay, babymama?"

"How many times do I have to ask you to stop calling me that?"

"One more," he says with a wink, before sitting down next to her. "You look like shit, babe. You should sleep before the kid wakes up."

Quinn groans and runs her hand through her already dishevelled hair. It probably looks like a mane by now, considering all the times she's done that in the last few hours. "I have work in forty minutes," she says, stealing a glance at the clock on her bedside table. "I can't sleep."

"Quinn?"

She looks up at Puck sharply. He rarely, if ever uses her full name. "What's wrong?"

"You, uh, you do remember that I gotta leave today, right?"

"Leave?" Her brow furrows in confusion. Why would Puck be leaving? Where would he be – "Shit!" She buries her face in her hands in frustration. "Shit, I forgot!"

"Look, it's cool," he soothingly rubs his large hand across her lower back. "I'll tell the guys to go ahead without me. I can catch up in a day or two."

"No," she looks up at him with genuine love. Sometimes she forgets how much she's come to rely on Noah Puckerman. "No, you go. You have to go. I need you to become a rock star so that you can finally make enough money to pay the rent on time." She shoots him a weak smile that has him smirking.

"Baby, I have _always_ been a rock star."

"Yeah, yeah whatever," she sort of snorts and leans into him, taking comfort in his solid weight.

"Seriously, Q. How are you gonna manage without me?"

Quinn sighs heavily and reaches for her phone. "I have an idea." It's a bad one, she thinks, but it's better than nothing.

...

It's barely 9am when Rachel knocks, which means she either flew over on her invisible jet, or left her apartment only minutes after Quinn called. After the phone call in question, Quinn went through various emotions, the most prominent of those being guilt, during which point she was about to pick up the phone and call Rachel up to retract the previous request. She hated asking for help in any form (pride was right up there with guilt) and it was really only when Puck convinced her that she had to go to work and he had to leave in an hour that she realized Rachel might very well be her only option.

The short brunette is barely through over the threshold when Quinn is thrusting a paper cup at her. "Chai tea latte with soy milk and no honey."

Rachel looks startled but accepts the cup graciously.

"On an IMDB forum someone said it was your favourite drink. I sent Puck out to get it since our coffee machine is broken. If you hate it, I can make him go get something else. There's a Starbucks just down the block. I also got a bag of vegan oatmeal cookies from the health store across the street. In case you didn't have breakfast. I know I called early. I'm really sorry, Rachel. I wouldn't have called if it wasn't imp-"

"Quinn?" She shuts up when Rachel closes the gap between them and places a finger on her lips. "I appreciate the latte. And the cookies. But you didn't have to go to all that trouble. I'm here because I want to be, okay?"

Quinn nods, her eyes going squint as she attempts to focus on the finger Rachel still has on her mouth. When that finger eventually falls away, Quinn smiles sheepishly, embarrassed by her Rachel-like ramble, "Sorry, I guess I'm no good at asking for help."

"It's okay," Rachel takes a sip of her drink and makes an approving noise. "We can work on that. Now what do you need me for?"

In another circumstance, she'd have fun with Rachel's choice of phrasing, but right now, she feels lucky that her synapses are firing well enough for her to understand the words coming out of the other girl's mouth. God, she's tired.

"Max has got chickenpox," she says and watches as Rachel's face immediately morphs into one of concern.

"Oh no, is he alright? You know it's a common childhood virus, typical within playgroups, which, I'm sorry to say, act as a cesspool of disease and head lice. I, myself was held back from play groups for this very reason. My dads chose to keep me occupied with learning videos and cassette tapes. But from what I've heard, it's much better to get chickenpox as a child, in fact, doctors say that-"

"Rachel," its Quinn who cuts _her_ off this time. "Max is going to be fine. We got him to the paediatrician last night and he got his meds and calamine lotion. The only problem is," she cringes slightly. Why is this so difficult? "I need to be at work for a really important meeting later on and Puck's leaving for Connecticut today, so there's really no-one to watch over Max. And, um – I remember you telling me that you only had a night shoot, so I was hoping-"

"Say no more, Quinn." Rachel holds up her hand decisively. "I would love to look after Max today."

Quinn looks at her sceptically. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." Rachel's grinning. She's actually grinning and Quinn can't help but wonder if she eats sunshine for breakfast or something.

"Well," she walks into the living room and Rachel follows. "He's gonna be groggy today because of the fever, and the doctor said he might have earache, which will make him really cranky. He likes apple juice, but he needs to drink water as well and you have to make sure he doesn't scratch."

Rachel's nodding furiously and blinking like she's mentally jotting this down. She backs up slightly when Quinn whirls around suddenly. "I should be home at about four."

"Okay," Rachel says meekly.

"Look, Rachel, I really appreciate this. I know you didn't plan on spending your Tuesday afternoon babysitting a sick kid.

"Quinn, I told you, I want to help, so let me." Something about the way she says it has Quinn nodding.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Rachel looks down at the wooden floors and kicks her toe against the mat. "After last night, I was sort of worried."

Guilt slams into Quinn and she takes a step forward, inadvertently closing the gap between herself and Rachel. Before she realises it, she's reaching for Rachel's hands, because, well, they're _there_. "Look, Rach," she doesn't often use the diminutive form of her name. It seems…intimate. But right now it feels right. "I'm sorry I just ran out like that. I was…kinda freaked out."

"Oh." But Rachel's still looking past her, and all she wants is to feel those warm chocolate brown eyes engulf her.

Quinn bites her lower lip in frustration. How else can she apologise? "It's just, it was a shock, you know? I didn't know how to handle it."

"Quinn, I understand." Rachel looks up at her now. "I mean, we did almost kiss. Under any circumstances, that would be-"

Quinn feels seconds away from passing out or maybe throwing up. "Rachel, I was talking about Max."

"Oh!" she's never seen anyone go so red in so little time. Rachel looks like she's got the world's worst sunburn. "Oh, of course, I just-" she pulls her hands out of Quinn's and covers her face in mortification. "I'msoembarrassed," she mumbles and has Quinn prying her hands away from her face.

"No, listen, Rach," but now Quinn's biting down on her lips because Rachel's looking up at her with these big eyes that reflect utter humiliation and it's really not funny, except it kind of is in a hysterical way, because she hadn't really thought about their almost kiss since last night but now that Rachel's brought it up, she can't seem to think about anything else and suddenly Quinn really doesn't want to go to work and the thought of Rachel being in their apartment all day suddenly has her all flustered and she doesn't know what this means and there are a million things going on inside of her and Rachel's still staring up at her all wide-eyed and thank God Puck just walked out of the bathroom half-naked.

"'Sup my Jewish hotcake?"

"Good morning Noah."

"Puck, put some pants on!"

He tugs on the towel around his waist suggestively and winks. "You sure about that?"

"Puck," Quinn practically growls through clenched teeth.

"Okay, okay, I'm going. Nice to see you, Rach. Thanks for looking after the little man."

"It's my pleasure Noah," she calls after him. Quinn watches as Rachel's eyes trace the tattoos on Puck's broad back as he walks away.

She clears her throat to get Rachel attention and smirks when the girls head snaps back to her. "What? Quinn? Huh?"

"I should probably get going," Quinn drawls, finding herself loathe to leave Rachel alone with Max…and a half-naked Puck.

"That's fine," Rachel says. "I mean, you'll have your phone on right?"

"Yeah," she nods. "I've left a list of instructions about his meds on the fridge and, um…I told him you're going to be here, so he won't be freaked out or anything when he wakes up. If you need anything, just call. Puck's only leaving in an hour or so anyway."

"Quinn, I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" She meets Rachel's gaze and holds it for a moment too long before looking away. "Yeah, okay. I should-" Quinn makes towards Puck's room door and knocks lightly.

When he opens, he's wearing a pair of boxer shorts and socks. "You leaving now?"

"Yeah." She looks up at him. "Good luck okay?"

He grins and scoops her into a hug. "Same to you, babymama," he whispers, giving her a tight squeeze before letting go. Quinn doesn't even have to ask what he's referring to.

...

She has to force herself from calling Rachel the minute she reaches work just to check on things. She doesn't want to insult the other girl's competence. At 10:30, she does call, but only to tell Rachel where the take-out menus are in case she wanted to get something for lunch. At least, that's what she tells herself. By 11, she's so swamped; she barely remembers her own name. In a few weeks, the gallery is having their Winter Surrealists exhibition - arguably, the largest showing of the season. She's tasked with overseeing the promotion, which is a hellish assignment. Their meeting with Banks lasts a little over two hours and his incessant droning has her considering various ways of death by stationary. She's more than competent for the task, but Banks insists on babying not only her, but Hector as well, despite the fact that her boss is probably the most experienced art director in the state.

She grumbles her way back to her tiny office and slumps down into her chair.

"Why do look like the sky is falling in on you, mija?"

Quinn raises her head to see Hector leaning against the door frame. In his knitted sweater and corduroy slacks, he looks like he should be sitting in a large leather armchair reading Masterpiece Theatre, rather than running an art gallery. Though the minute he opens his mouth and that heavy Columbian accent falls out, the incongruence becomes delicious.

Quinn just sighs and shrugs her shoulders a little grumpily, as if she were six instead of twenty-six. The older man chuckles and makes his way to her desk.

"Banks shouldn't have spoken to you like that," she says eventually, idly scratching at the splotches of paint on her desk. "He speaks to you like, like you're beneath him or something."

She lifts her chin when Hector taps it with his finger. "There will always be men like Leonard Banks in the world, Quinn and they will always think they know better."

When she rolls her eyes, he sits down on the edge of the desk and leans down towards her. "Listen to me, nothing is permanent, mija. All situations are temporary. You watch, soon I will have that gallery of my own and I'll be needing fresh talent. You know anyone?"

Quinn smiles and shakes her head. "Yeah, yeah, okay."

Hector watches her carefully before saying, "Now what is this really about?"

She frowns, "What do you mean?"

"Quinn, I know you. You never get this worked up over a meeting and I know that the little one will be fine, you told me what the doctor said. So, my question is, what is really going on?"

She literally has to bite down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. "I dunno," she whispers with a shrug of her shoulder. "I guess I'm just, I'm a little overwhelmed."

"Is it work? Has it been too-"

"No, no Hector, it's not work. It's just…" she gives him a feeble smile, "life stuff I guess."

"Ah," Hector nods suddenly as if it all makes sense.

"Ah, what?"

"You're in love," he says with a definitive nod.

Quinn almost falls out of her chair as she shoots up straight. "Wha-? In love? Ha, no. No, no. I am so not in love. I mean who would I be in-? No. There's no love." And yet her palms are suddenly clammy and there's this weird twitching behind her eye and oh, sweet Lord is this what a panic attack feels like? She had a roommate in her sophomore year of college who would get these weird freak-out panic attacks before finals and maybe this is what she was going through and why is Hector looking at her with that stupid smirky face?

"Okay." He shoots her a small smile and she wants to slap him. "You're not in love."

"I'm not," she answers shortly. "Now go away, I'm very busy and important."

After two more seconds of staring at her with the stupid smirky face, he kisses his fingertips before placing them against her cheek. "You'll be alright, mija."

After he's gone, Quinn's not quite sure if she feels better or worse.

...

By the time she gets to the apartment, it's already dark. That doesn't necessarily mean it's late, but she did want to make it home before 5 and traffic was being a bitch and now it's twenty past and she promised she'd bring dinner and this whole rambling in her head thing is really starting to hurt. She briefly wonders if this is why Rachel just lets it all out. Although Quinn's never been much of a talker, she doubts that's going to change now.

She jingles the key in the lock while expertly balancing the bag of Thai-takeout in one hand and her hand bag in the other. The apartment is surprisingly quiet and finds herself moving with care so as not to disturb the strange sense of peace that seems to have taken over the place. With the Puck and Max Show always on repeat, it's a rarity that she comes home to this kind of stillness. But then a low, melodious voice fills her senses and has her heading towards Max's room. She toes off her shoes and pads across the wooden floors so as to make as little noise as possible. The door is half-open, and Quinn's about to make her entrance when something stops her and she holds back. There's something about the simple domesticity of the scene before her that has her feeling like two hands have taken her heart and wrung it out.

Rachel's lying on Max's bed, a tiny kid bed she had bought for practically nothing at a yard sale a couple of weeks ago. Puck fixed it up really well and she had painted the frame with pictures of dinosaurs and other funny creatures. The funny thing is, that Rachel's so short, her feet just barely touch the end anyway. Max is cuddled up beside her, already in his Batman pjs, with his head resting in her lap. Rachel idly runs her fingers through the little boy's silken blonde curls as she speaks.

"So you see, the Princess believed that the only way that anyone would ever notice her was if she could win the crown at the Grand Ball. But she was wrong."

"She was?" Max asks in a sleepy voice.

"That's right. You see the Princess didn't know it, but there was someone who noticed her, and not just because she was the most beautiful girl in the entire land, or because her eyes were the colour of golden sun drops."

Max yawns and turns his head to look up at Rachel. "Wachel?"

"Yes?"

"Are there piwates in this stowy?"

"Uh," Rachel frowns, "Do you want there to be?"

"Most definitely," Max says, causing Quinn to purse her lips in amusement. The brunette looks slightly put out at the sudden change in her plot.

"O-okay," Rachel continues. "So one day, a ship came to the land of McKinley. And it was a pirate ship." Max smiles sleepily. "And the pirate captain was a vicious tyrant who ruled the seas with great fear and terror."

Rachel was really getting into this.

"She went by the name of Captain Long-Tongue Lopez."

Quinn snorts and falls against the wall, trying to contain her laughter. Really Rachel? Really?

Rachel's voice continues and Quinn leans against the outside wall, just soaking in the sound of her voice. "Now, Captain Lopez was as beautiful as she was cruel, and she came to the land with her first mate, the Brittany the Buxom."

Quinn wonders if Rachel realises that this story is beginning to sound a lot like the plot to a porn movie. She chances another look around the corner. Max's eyes are barely open on Rachel's lap, but she continues to speak, obviously entranced by her own tale.

"At this time, the Princess was supposed to be in the castle, because no-one wanted to be out while Long Tongue Lopez and her First Mate were pillaging the town. But Princess Quinnivere,"

Quinnivere? Quinn's heart still's in her chest.

"-had snuck out with the blacksmith's oafish son." Quinn watches as Rachel bends over slightly to check on Max. The little boy is softly snoring now, his fist still tightly clasping the blanket over her thighs. With a soft smile, Rachel gently untangles herself and tucks the boy in, making sure he isn't too hot. Quinn has the strangest feeling, as she watches Rachel place Tony next to the sleeping child, making sure the dinosaur is just in his reach. It's ridiculous how often she's been feeling cardiac anomalies since Rachel's been around. She wonders if she would get that checked out.

The brunette is barely out of the room when Quinn mutters a soft, "Hi!" which, predictably has Rachel yelping and jumping a foot away from her before fixing Quinn with a death glare.

"That is so not funny, Quinn Fabray! I almost peed in my pants just now!"

That of course just has Quinn laughing even harder than she was just a second ago. And suddenly it's like all the tension she's been carrying around since that morning just melts away. Rachel's still staring at her with a look that would put the fear of God into anyone who didn't know her, but really it's just so funny, because she's standing there in her socks and she's scowling and she's just plain adorable and suddenly, it's all okay. Quinn sniffs and wipes her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says, the chuckle in her voice making it obvious that she really isn't. "It was just so easy."

Rachel pouts. "C'mere, I'm sorry, okay?" And then on instinct, or maybe something more, Quinn steps forward and pulls a surprised Rachel into a hug. She must be surprised, because she makes a little squeaking noise and is kind of tense for a second before wrapping her arms around Quinn's mid-section and returning the embrace. And it really, it is an embrace, because hugs don't really involve nuzzling or that thing Quinn's doing where she's kind of burying her nose into the top of Rachel's head to see if her hair really does smell like raspberries, or if it's something she made up.

It's Rachel who pulls back first and looks up at Quinn with a quizzical expression."What was that for?" She bites down on her lip shyly.

"Um, sorry I jumped out of the dark at you," Quinn says, feeling kind of sheepish now. "And thank you. For today, I mean."

Rachel waves her hand. "Quinn, I told you, I was my pleasure. I had a blast with Max."

She raises her brow. "Really? He wasn't cranky?"

"Well, he had a bit of a fever this morning and he was nauseous after lunch, but after a bath he felt better. We had fun, I promise."

Quinn's mouth pulls into a smile. "Rachel," she sighs. God, how do you explain these feelings without saying the one thing you don't know how to say? "You're kind of amazing."

Rachel beams at her. "Tell me something I don't know, Fabray."

Quinn barks out a laugh before rolling her eyes. "Come on, Ms Hollywood, let's get you fed."

Rachel perks up. "You brought food?"

"Vegetable Pad Thai."

"My favourite!"

"I know."

"I did you-"

"IMDB."

"Those forums are surprisingly accurate."

...

It's 7:30am when she hears the knock, which is strange, because Rachel isn't supposed to be over until eight. Quinn's only working until midday and then she's off for the rest of the week, which is great, because she'll be able to spend the week with Max. Rachel offered to spend the morning with him and she didn't really have an alternative, so she agreed, but now she's confused, because Max is sleeping, Puck's out of town and who the hell knocks at 7:30am? When the knocking increases in volume, Quinn curses and turns off the shower. Whoever's at that door is about to get a show, she thinks, grabbing a skimpy towel and draping it across her still wet body. She marches towards the front door and opens it, prepared to give some Jehovah's Witness a mouthful, when Rachel Berry looks up at her with wide, hungry eyes.

"Uh, Q-Quinn."

"Rachel? You're…early?" And I'm naked.

"Sorry, yes. I called, but you weren't picking up. I apologise for my inappropriate timing, I obviously interrupted your morning hygiene routine. I could um…" Quinn watches in half amusement, half-fascination as Rachel's eyes follow the droplet of water that travels from her neck down her collar bone and is absorbed into the towel. "I could wait out here, I mean until you," she licks her lips and Quinn has to muffle the whine building up in her throat. "Until you finish," Rachel ends in a whisper.

"That's fine," Quinn cocks her head towards the living room. "Why don't you come inside?"

It's then when Rachel steps back and Quinn sees the three suitcases in the hallway and for the first time, notices the box labelled _DeLonghi Coffee-Maker_ at Rachel's feet.

"Rachel?" Quinn raises her eyebrow as far as it can go. "What's going on?"

"Well," Rachel wrings her hands nervously. "I was thinking about it and with Noah gone and Max sick, you're going to need help. I mean, really Quinn, you're all alone and you have that big showing coming up, the one you told me about last night and I know how hard you work and who knows how long Noah will be in Connecticut assuming the recording goes well and since I'm only a couple of blocks away and filming has a fairly flexible schedule I really believe it's conducive to both our situations if-"

"Berry!" Quinn all but yells and Rachel clamps down on her lips. "Spit it out."

Rachel takes a tremulous breath and offers Quinn one of her big, Broadway smiles, "I want to move in."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Please note the rating change. **

* * *

><p><strong><span> Chapter 10<span>**

The decision was a simple one, really. A simple decision based on an even simpler fact: Rachel Berry is in love. In love with a beautiful, bright-eyed blonde whose disarming smile and perfect laugh has captured her senses and left her spellbound. She doesn't even care that the object of her affection is 3'7 and currently covered in spots. Coming home to her cold, empty room after a day spent with Max and an evening spent with Max's equally charming aunt, just seems cruel. And so, the decision is simple, because really, if Quinn can't see that it's in both of their best interests for her to move in then she's spectacularly short-sighted. And Rachel knows from snooping exploring the contents of Quinn's medicine cabinet while she was in her bathroom, that Quinn suffers from hyperopia which means she's far-sighted. But these are all just semantics and before she knows it, she's standing in front of Quinn's door with a ridiculously expensive coffee-machine at her feet, because she feels she needs a bargaining chip, even though her prepared speech is pretty flawless, if Quinn would only give her the – Quinn. In. A. Towel.

Rachel's prepared speech goes out the window. She's vaguely aware that her lower lip is resting on her chin and she's possibly drooling, but honestly, if Quinn insists on parading herself around in nothing but a skimpy –

"Rachel? You're…early?"

She is? "Sorry, yes. I called, but you weren't picking up. I apologise for my inappropriate timing, I obviously interrupted your morning hygiene routine. I could um…" Quinn's staring at her like she expects her to speak and Rachel remembers that she had a speech about…something. Except there's this shiny droplet of water that's just fallen from the tip of Quinn's wet hair, onto her shoulder and it seems to be running down to her collar bone…all the way down. It really is quite mesmerising. Quinn sort of clears her throat before Rachel jerks her head back up, somewhat sheepishly. "I could wait out here, I mean until you," she licks her lips and rakes her eyes over Quinn. The towel is starting to mould against her damp body and really, could she have chosen a smaller scrap of cotton? It really is indecent, Rachel thinks huffily. "Until you finish," she ends in a low voice.

Quinn, for her part, looks mostly amused and motions inside. "That's fine. Why don't you come inside?"

Rachel sees the moment that her eyes fall on the coffee-maker box and the three suitcases behind her. Well it's not like she could pack _all _her shoes, so she settled on the important ones and only brought three bags. Quinn's eyes widen for a moment, then narrow into an expression known to a select few as 'Scary Quinn'.

"Rachel?" Quinn raises her eyebrow as far as it can go. "What's going on?"

Okay, this is it, just like we practised, Rachel. She takes a deep breath, as if she was about to launch into a heart wrenching ballad before saying, ""Well, I was thinking about it and with Noah gone and Max sick, you're going to need help. I mean, really Quinn, you're all alone and you have that big showing coming up, the one you told me about last night and I know how hard you work and who knows how long Noah will be in Connecticut assuming the recording goes well and since I'm only a couple of blocks away and filming has a fairly flexible schedule I really believe it's conducive to both our situations if-"

"Berry!" Rachel actually winces as Quinn's voice takes on that specific tone. "Spit it out." Stick to the plan, Rachel.

"I want to move in."

There, she said it. It's out there, floating towards Quinn, or more like shooting towards Quinn, because judging by the look on the blonde's face, she's just been hit by a verbal torpedo.

"Uh, come again?"

"Move in," Rachel says, a little more assertively this time, "With you and Max. Temporarily of course. If you think about it as I have done, you'll see the numerous benefits of sharing living space, including, though not limited to the use of this very functional coffee-maker I happened to purchase before stopping over."

"Rachel, please don't tell me you actually bought that thing-"

"Well of course I bought it, Quinn," she says, cutting her off. "Consider it, a housewarming gift if you will."

Rachel watches Quinn's eyes survey her suitcases and the coffee-maker at her feet. She seems to be considering…something.

"Quinn?"

Those eyes, almost green this morning dart back to Rachel's face and she can see the indecision. Something's holding her back, Rachel's just not sure what it is. "Look, I know you're going to need help with Max. And I-I want to help. Also," she shrugs her shoulders, "I guess I'm kind of lonely in the guesthouse. I mean, the rest of the cast are perfectly fine conversationalists, but you're-" she stops. What? Different? Special? _Quinn?_ "Just give it a week."

She sees the resolve in Quinn's eyes before she hears her say, "Okay, alright. But you're on probation, Berry. And you're buying your own vegan food."

"Done!" Rachel beams, already lugging one huge case past Quinn into past the living room and into Puck's bedroom which smell's a little bit like…cheese?

"And no playing show tunes," Quinn adds with a smirk that causes Rachel to gasp.

"But Quinn, my-my morning regiment requires-" she swallows and nods. "Alright. N-no show tunes," she echoes as if it physically pains her.

Quinn smiles what Rachel considers to be a sadistic smile. "Good. Now, I'm going to put some clothes on. When I get back, I want coffee."

…

Rachel's in the process of the cursing the Italian instructions on the manual of the coffee-maker when Max walks into the room. She melts at the sight of him in his batman-themed footie pyjamas, his floppy bedhead and spotty cheeks. "Mornin' Wachel," he mumbles, still rubbing his sleepy eyes.

"Good morning, Max," she says with a smile, crouching down. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"'Lil better," he replies with a yawn. "Quinn lemme have a vitamin gummy bear 'fore bed last night. She said it was magic and that it'll make the chickensocks go away faster."

Rachel's mouth twitches, but she doesn't bother to correct him. "Well, if Quinn said so, then it must be true."

"What must be true?"

A fully dressed Quinn Fabray emerges from her bedroom and Rachel nearly has a heart attack. She's wearing a knee-length, pin-stripe pencil skirt, with a slit just long enough to be considered 'work-friendly', a silky grey ruffle blouse and heels that could poke a man's eye out. Her hair, usually charmingly mussed, has been sleeked down and pinned to one side. Simply put, Rachel thinks, she looks like the lovechild of a stockbroker and a stripper. It's enthralling.

"Do-do you always go to work like that?" Rachel clears her throat a little.

"Like what?" Quinn asks, distracted as she attempts to get her earing on.

"Like, like you're auditioning for a part in _Wall Street_?"

Quinn laughs and smooths her skirt down a little self-consciously. "No. I've got a meeting at the bank before work. It's for a loan, so I'm trying to make a good impression."

Rachel swallows and nods. "Well, if they don't give it to you it's cause they're blind." Oh sweet Barbra, had she said that out loud? "Blind to your obvious financial stability," she amends quickly as Quinn bites down on her lips to keep from smiling. "Cause I mean, you obviously are. Financially stable."

"Rach?" Quinn takes a step towards her and smiles sort of lopsidedly.

"Yeah?"

"You're sweet."

"I want Lucky Charms!" They both turn to Max, who's been standing between them for the better part of this interaction. "Quinn," he tugs on her skirt, "Lucky Charms!"

"Okay, sweet-pea." She picks him up and places a hand over his forehead. "You've got a bit a fever don'tcha?"

"He does?" Rachel's eyes are wide. "Should I have known that? I mean, he looked fine. Is he going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Quinn nods, adjusting the little boy on her hip as she one handedly reaches for the box of cereal. "He just needs his morning syrup and he'll be right as rain, won't you bud?"

"Yup," Max nods his head before resting it against Quinn's shoulder. She places him in front of the television with his cereal, making sure that he's comfy before returning to Rachel, who's taken to scowling at the coffee-maker's instruction manual.

"Hey," Quinn ducks her head so as to be eye-level with the brunette. "What's wrong? You know I was kidding about the coffee, right? I can pick some up on my way to work, I don't need-"

"I should have noticed he had a fever," Rachel says quietly. She looks away from Quinn, feeling even more foolish that she cares so much. "I saw him before you did, I should have noticed it. I wanted so badly to be here and to help you with Max, but I couldn't even tell. I mean, I have zero experience-"

"That's not true."

Rachel's eyes find Quinn's again. And she frowns. "I've seen you with Beth," Quinn says softly and sort of shrugs. "I mean, I've seen pictures and she's got a video of her fifth birthday party, the one I wasn't there for because of my finals." She gives Rachel a tremulous smile. "You're great with her and she adores you, Rach."

"Quinn-"

"So forget the fever, okay?" Quinn's voice changes to cheery. "It's easy to miss. Just make sure he gets his syrup on time and you'll both be fine."

"Okay," Rachel nods, not pushing it. With Quinn, it's important to know when to not push it. This is something she's come to learn, something she's still learning.

"Okay," Quinn smiles. "I have to go. But I'll see you early. I'm working a half-day."

"Great," Rachel grins, "Hopefully by the time you come home I will have mastered this…contraption."

"I have all the faith in you," Quinn says with a chuckle.

…

When Quinn gets home, Rachel's crying. As in sobbing.

She didn't expect to be this emotional. She didn't think it would affect her at all, and yet 93 minutes in, she's bawling because the emotional intensity of the moment is just too much for her to handle. Rachel sniffs and wipes her eyes with one of the many tissues around her when Quinn's key jingles in the door. The blonde is behind her in a second - apparently the sound of tears is a honing beacon. She pauses the film, not wanting to miss a moment and stares up at a concerned looking Quinn.

"I'm sorry," Rachel sniffs again. "I couldn't get the coffee-maker to work."

Quinn's brow furrows. "Is that why you're crying? For goodness sake Rach, I thought someone had died! We can get Starbucks! We don't need the coffee-maker!"

"It's not about the coffee-maker!" Rachel stage whispers, because Max is napping and she really doesn't want him to see her like this. "And, and someone _may _die."

"What do you mean someone _may_ die?"

"She motions towards the screen. "They're about to-to carbon freeze Han and Leia's just confessed her love for him!" She wipes at a tear that falls. "Also, Luke's about to arrive, but he's walking into a trap. Everything's just so complicated!"

Quinn looks incredulously from Rachel to the TV screen and back again. "_Star Wars_? You're crying because of _Star Wars_?"

When Rachel pouts and nods, Quinn barks out a laugh and falls onto the couch beside her, clutching her stomach. "You're crying because of _Star Wars_," she cackles breathlessly, snorting between bursts of laughter.

Rachel sits up straight and glares at her. "Quinn Fabray, your mockery is not appreciated!" And yet, Rachel can't deny the appeal and fascination of seeing Quinn this…unguarded. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair's messy from rolling around on the couch, her eyes are shining. Rachel imagines this must sort of be what she must look like when she's – her reverie is broken when she realises Quinn's lips are moving.

"Excuse me?"

"I take it this is the first time you've experienced the Empire?" Quinn asks, still grinning like an idiot.

"It is," Rachel huffs. "Although if you had a sympathetic bone in your body, you'd understand my emotional response."

Quinn chuckles. "I was sad too, okay? And yeah, I may have shed a tear or two in_ The_ _Return of the Jedi_ when Vader finally-"

"Lalalalala!" Rachel covers her ears with both hands. "Spoiler alert!" she says frowning at Quinn.

"Sorry," she replies, biting back her smile. "I'm just saying, that yeah, Star Wars is awesome and I suppose it can be…emotional." Quinn schools her face into a serious expression and clears her throat, "I'm sorry I mocked your reaction, Rachel."

"Thank you," Rachel answers, shooting a sidelong glance at Quinn to check for sincerity. She's not entirely sure the blonde really means it when the corner of her mouth turns up slightly. "I think I'll resume the film at my own leisure."

Quinn stares at Rachel for a long moment before asking, "How was Max today?"

"Good," she says quickly. "Great even. I checked his temperature thrice and all three times it was below 97, I also gave him his syrup and applied his lotion. Also, we may have broken the lamp in the hallway during an intense game of hide and seek, but I swear, I'll buy another one as soon I leave for work, you won't even notice the difference."

"It's fine, Rachel," Quinn's hand is one hers again, and Rachel finds she rather likes the feel of Quinn's cool, slender fingers against hers. "It's fine. And thanks."

Rachel looks confused.

"For looking after Max, I mean."

She's about to protest when Quinn throws her hands up. "I know, I know you do it because you want to. Just," she sighs and fixes Rachel with one of those expressions that makes her feel like she's an ant, slowly burning under the intensity of a magnifying glass with Quinn's hazel orbs as the sun. "Just thanks, okay?"

"Okay," Rachel murmurs.

"So." Quinn gets up and extends a hand for Rachel to grab. "Lunch?"

"I'd love to…roomie," Rachel adds with a grin, "But I've got to get to set."

"Oh." Quinn actually looks disappointed and Rachel finds herself strangely giddy at the thought of Quinn _excited _about spending time with her.

"I'll be back around nine," she says quickly, because suddenly that feels really important and Quinn just shrugs really casually and says, "Yeah, okay. I needed to get some painting done anyway."

"See you later?" Rachel's slowly reaching for her keys and realising how much she doesn't want to leave.

"Sure, later."

...

She's got two make-up people tugging on her hair when one of the PA's runs up to her. "Ms Berry, Mr Schwartz wants to see you. He's in editing."

Rachel nods and swats the make-up flies away, annoyed with their unnecessary attention. "Thanks, tell him I'll be right there."

She finds James squinting at a monitor and shaking his head. "It's just not right, Karl. I want this shot, see, this here, I want it- Rach, hey!" He pats the assistant editor on the shoulder. "I'll get back to you, okay?"

"Sure," Karl says and swivels around in his chair to face Rachel. "Hi, Rachel."

She smiles broadly at the younger man who she suspects has a crush on her, "Hi Karl. James isn't giving you too much of a hard time is he?"

"Aw nah, he's okay," Karl says ducking his head shyly. "Anyway, have a good day."

"You too," she says, not able to resist a wink before she leaves the little editing studio.

"You're cruel," James smirks as she steps out.

"What?" Rachel shrugs innocently and bats her eyelashes.

The director chuckles and puts his arm around her shoulders as they begin to walk back to the set. "Listen, Rach, um there's a bit of a problem."

Six words an actor never wants to hear. She stops immediately and faces him. "James Schwartz, did you fuck up the budget?" She rarely curses. But when she does, it's with such venom that the recipient is usually left wondering how many hours they have left to live.

"What? No, Rachel, no. It's not a budget problem. It's a scheduling problem."

She deflates somewhat, the fury building up inside her, just waiting to be released in the form of a tantrum suddenly dissipating. "Oh."

"Yeah. The Boston Lighthouse is being restored after the storm two nights ago and they won't let us shoot there until Monday. That pushes us back a week or so."

She swallows hard as her heart rate begins to increase. "Does this mean-You're saying we need to stay here an extra week?"

"Pretty much, yeah," James rubs the back of this neck, looking wholly apologetic. Rachel on the other hand, is trying her best not to break into a grin.

"That-that's fine."

James frowns. "Really? I thought you said that you needed to get back to New York within the month, didn't you and Dav-" he cuts himself off. "You know what, I'm not gonna fight this. If you're fine with it, I'm fine with it. Great talking to ya, Rach."

He walks off, leaving Rachel alone and wondering what it means that she's ecstatic about the thought of getting an extra week with Quinn.

Fate it seems, is a sneaky bitch and Rachel's pondering is soon interrupted by the sound of her own voice, crooning from her cellphone.

One look at the screen and she remembers how sharp and icy guilt stabs. "David, hi!"

"Hey, baby." The buzz of traffic in the distance suggests that he's driving. "How are things in chilly Boston?"

"Chilly," she says with a slight giggle. "But other than that, I mean, filming's going great. We shot the death scene yesterday and oh, my god, David, I was spectacular. I mean, I really felt it, you know?"

"I'm sure it was incredible, Rach!" There's a sudden honking before, "Hey, asshole! You really think you can cut in front of me?"

"David?"

"Sorry, babe, you were saying?"

"No," her voice gets softer, "I was just saying that I think the movie's going really well so far."

"That's awesome!" She can hear the smile in his voice, that specific open-mouthed smile that sometimes gets her all weak-kneed. "I have some good news too."

"Is that right?" She's smiling too now. He has that effect on her. So she's smiling and walking to her trailer. She doesn't need to be on set for another half-hour anyway.

"Yeah." She hears him take a breath on the other end. "They want me, Rach. The network wants me for the pilot. Shooting starts in Feb."

Rachel's squealing into the phone before he finishes his sentence. "Oh my god! David, sweetheart! That's amazing! I'm so happy for you!"

"Yeah, yeah," he's giddy, she can hear it. "This is a huge project. It's almost certain to get picked up and if it's picked up, it's back-to-back shooting and the hours are hell."

"Honey," Rachel says in a dry tone, "You forget I spent years on stage. I know about hellish hours."

"Ha, yeah, so you do," he laughs weakly and she frowns.

"David, what's wrong? Are you concerned about the amount of work? You've done worse. I know you've been out of-"

"Rach it's not that," he interjects.

"So what then?"

"We're shooting in Toronto," he says lowly.

Rachel's breath hitches. "Canada?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "Production costs are cheaper and, well if this thing works out, I'll be spending up to eight months at a time up there."

"Did-did you sign anything yet?" her voice is higher than she'd like it to be.

"No." He says it softly, like he doesn't want to say it at all. "No, course not, babe. I wanted to talk to you first. I thought, look, you finish shooting in week you'll be home; we can talk it out then, right? It'll give us time to think about things."

"Things?" Rachel echoes, her heart beating wildly.

"Yeah, like scheduling and stuff." David sounds confused. "What'd you think I meant?"

"N-nothing," she swallows hard. "David, uh-filming's been extended by a week. I just heard."

"Fuck." He exhales sharply. "Babe, they want an answer by next week. Look, what if I come to you?"

Rachel suddenly feels nauseous. Alarm bells flicker all around her screaming NO! NO! NO! This place, this city has somehow become her escape from…everything and having David here is akin to seeing your parent at school. The two worlds cannot mix.

"No," she says shortly. "You don't have to do that. I'll work something out, okay?"

"Rachel, are you okay with this?"

"Yeah." She struggles to soften her tone. There are too many feelings swirling around inside of her right now, too many thoughts, too many things she shouldn't be thinking. "Listen, honey, I have to go, but we'll talk soon, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, babe."

"I have to go," she repeats. "Bye, sweetheart."

By the time they're calling her to set, five minutes later, she's still trembling.

...

"So then the evil pirate Captain Flacid McFinnypants launched his canons at the ship, but Captain Lopez was an excellent sailor and she easily dodged the cannonballs."

"What about First Mate Bwittany and the Pwincess?"

"Well, while Captain Lopez was keeping McFinnypants distracted with the awesome dodging skills, Brittany and the Princess snuck aboard McFinnypants' ship."

"To steal the tweasure?"

"That's right, to steal the treasure, cause remember, the lost treasure of Atlantis didn't belong to McFinnypants at all, but to all the people of McKinley. So really, they were just stealing it back."

At this point, Rachel, who managed to soundless creep into the apartment minutes ago, is tempted to make her presence known and point out the moral implications of the lesson Quinn is teaching Max, but the boy seems so enraptured and Quinn seems so involved in her tale, the tale Rachel began, she thinks with a smirk, that she hesitates.

She watches Quinn scoot further up the little bed to make herself more comfortable before continuing. "So anyway, once Quinnivere and Brittany had made it on board, they had to find the treasure. So they looked in the captain's quarters, but it wasn't there. Then they looked in slaves lodging, but it wasn't there. Finally, they decided to split up. Brittany was to check Puckasaurus the Putrid's quarters-"

Max collapses into giggles. "Puckasaurus!"

"Yeah," Quinn nods and grins, "I think it's silly too. Anyway, the Princess went below deck to check the cells and suddenly, she heard something she never expected."

"What?" Max shuffles closer to her and repeats with wide eyed curiosity, "What'd she hear, Quinn?"

"Singing," Quinn says softly. "The saddest song ever sung, coming from the loveliest voice she had ever heard. Of course the Princess followed the voice until it took her to one of the cells where, in the middle of the cold, dark room, sat the most beautiful creature Quinnivere had ever laid eyes on. It was a Siren. "

"Wow," Max breaths and Rachel, still standing at her spot by the door, can't help but let out a breath as well. She can't deny that Quinn has a way with words, the way her voice spins this simple fairy tale into something warm and tangible, something that wraps around you and makes you feel like you can see it, like you can breathe it.

"Her skin was a dusky gold colour," Quinn continues, "and it glowed slightly, as if she had eaten the sun when she was a little girl. Her hair was dark, dark like the pod of a vanilla bean and it smelled like one too. But it was her eyes, her sad, lonely eyes as sad as the song she sang, that really drew Quinn in. They were like pools of swirling chocolate. She found she wanted to drown in them."

Rachel wonders if Quinn realizes that she just turned the tale biographical and rather…Sapphic. She also can't help but narcissistically notice that Quinn was describing a being a lot like one Rachel Berry, if she was a mythological Greek creature of course.

"Wh-what happened next?" Max asks, swallowing a yawn which Quinn catches before ruffling his hair. "Well, I haven't decided yet. We'll figure it out tomorrow, okay?"

The lower lip juts out in a pout Rachel can be proud of. "But Quiiiiin, I'm not sleeeeepy!" The boy yawns again and scowls, aware that his body's betraying him.

"Well Tony is," Quinn says, tossing the T-Rex at Max. "Maybe just keep him company while falls asleep, okay?"

"M'kay," he replies, his eyelids already drooping.

"Love you, buddy," Quinn kisses his nose gently before turning on his lamp and switching off the light.

Rachel finds herself entirely caught up in this scene. There's something about the interaction between Quinn and Max, the natural fluidity, the way they respond to each other – it warms Rachel, makes her feel this desperate need to be part of something, something that she's missing, that she's lacking and suddenly, that void, that empty space that she's gotten so good at evading becomes all too apparent.

She barely makes it to the kitchen before Quinn comes out of Max's room. Rachel hastily reaches for a dish cloth and begins absently drying off a glass when Quinn looks up, surprised.

"Hey, when did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago," Rachel smiles. "You were busy so…" she trails off, her smile turning into something of a smirk.

Quinn slowly saunters towards her with narrowed eyes. "Okay, how much of that did you hear exactly?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Quinn," Rachel says innocently. "I heard absolutely nothing about McFinnypants or the beautiful, dark-haired songstress who may or may not be based on an upcoming young actress."

Quinn purses her lips in amusement and rolls her eyes, but there's a tell-tale blush on her cheeks. "Don't flatter yourself, Berry. In my head she looks like a young Rachel Weiss."

"So that's your type?" Rachel asks, reaching for another glass. She's actually drying the dishes now. "Dark features, Jewish features? Girls whose names rhyme with Wachel?" She's trying so hard not to smirk, but it's difficult when Quinn's looking that flustered.

"Wha-? N-no! I don't have a type, I mean, I've-" Quinn stops talking and glares at a giggling Rachel. "Okay, very funny, had your fun?"

She smiles and nods. "Yeah," then laughs when Quinn sort of playfully shoves her. They dry dishes in silence for a few moments before Rachel turns to Quinn, her face sober now. "Seriously though, do you?"

Quinn turns to her, dishcloth in hand. "Do I what?"

"Have a type?" Rachel asks, suddenly nervous. Why is she nervous?

"Oh." Quinn turns quickly back to the sink and begins drying a plate that seems pretty dry already. "Not really. It's not like I've dated that many girls anyway."

"But, out of the girls you have been with," Rachel pushes on, "What," she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "What have they been like?"

Quinn lets out a breath and leans back against the island. "Physically? I guess I like dark hair. My first girlfriend, the uh, the one from San Francisco, she had dark hair."

"What was her name?" Rachel puts down the mug in her hands. Her palms are suddenly sweaty. The air in the small kitchen has become dense, like they're sharing each other's breath, as if there's not enough oxygen in the room.

"Rory." Quinn tugs her top lip between her teeth. "She was," she swallows hard and shrugs her right shoulder weakly, "She kind of saved me," Quinn says softly, meeting Rachel's gaze with a kind of simmering intensity.

Rachel suddenly finds herself ridiculously and overwhelmingly jealous of a human being she has never met. A human being who saved Quinn Fabray. She should be thankful, she should be applauding this person, but all she can think is, _why wasn't it me_? _Why couldn't I be the one Quinn thinks of as her saviour? Why was I the one she walked away from?_

"So what happened?" she looks down at her hands, because she really can't bear to look Quinn in the eye any longer.

"People…change," is Quinn's reply and Rachel looks back up at her.

"Yeah, they do." She's suddenly exhausted. They day has been…exhausting. She's tired. Tired of wanting and denying and denying and wanting.

"Hey," Quinn flicks her arm suddenly and Rachel jolts.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Take off that mopey face," the blonde says clearly wanting to put the previous conversation behind her. "How about," she sing-songs and points towards the coffee-maker, "A cup of coffee and a some bad TV?"

"You made it work!" Rachel gapes at Quinn. "How did you make it work?"

"Rach, it was easy," Quinn chuckles at Rachel's put-out expression.

"Yeah, if you speak Italian."

"You do speak Italian."

"Basic Italian, Quinn! Those instructions were written in advanced Italian and maybe some Mandarin as well."

Quinn's full on laughing now, "Whatever. I read the English on the back."

"There was English on the back?"

Quinn nods and Rachel scowls.

"Okay, so how about we test it out?" the blonde says. "Look, I even bought almond milk."

Rachel playfully rolls her eyes and takes the milk bottle from Quinn. "I think I can take it from here," she says, pushing a variety of buttons in hopes of producing a latte.

After some whining and buzzing, the machine begins to rattle and they look at each other excitedly. "I think it's working," Quinn says.

Sure enough, two seconds later, a shot of espresso drips out of the funnel followed by milk. "But where's the foam? Rachel whines.

"Rach, it's probably still-"

Rachel sticks her head under the funnel, as if she can somehow see the process inside and Quinn knows what's going to happen before it happens. That does not however, make it any less hilarious when a dollop of foam comes squirting out onto Rachel's face.

Between Rachel spluttering and Quinn almost crying with laughter, the apartment is filled with noise. "C'mere," Quinn says finally, as Rachel unsuccessfully attempts to get it all off with the dishcloth.

"I thig id wend up by dose," she says, causing Quinn to giggle some more.

"Oh poor baby." Quinn leans in and wipes the foam off Rachel's cheeks' and out of her eyelashes. "It got in your eyebrows too," she whispers and takes a step forward so that their bodies are practically touching. She exhales and Rachel inhales. "There," Quinn murmurs, lowering the cloth slowly. "All clean."

Rachel's body feels like it's been through electroshock therapy. She's standing, a millimetre away from Quinn and willing herself to stop trembling, willing her breathing to normalise, her heart to steady. But it's all in vain, she's a mess. And now Quinn's looking at her. Those eyes, those goddamn eyes are raking over her face, they're fixed on her mouth and oh sweet Barbra, she wants to lick her lips, she wants to so badly, but would that be too obvious? Would that be too- well never mind, because she just did it anyway and now Quinn's breathing like she's just run a marathon and Rachel swears, if any phone fucking rings now, she will throw it against a wall and her eyes flicker up to Quinn's for just a second, just a second and she knows it's about to happen.

Quinn's lips on hers are firm and needy and oh god, so soft. There's nothing tentative about this time. There're not teenagers now and there's a whole lot of pent-up tension behind whatever this is. Quinn's hands immediately go to her collar and she's fisting her shirt, walking her backwards until she's pressing up against the counter. There's a moan although she can't be sure who it's from. It's still just lips. Lips gliding over lips, sleekly, smoothly until Quinn bites down on Rachel's plump bottom lip and sucks. This time, it's definitely Rachel who moans. And then Quinn's tongue is in her mouth, ghosting against her tongue, flicking over her pallet and it's glorious, like who knew the taste of someone else's tongue could be this spectacular, except it is, it's…she pushes Quinn back for a moment, and uses the space to rub their cheeks together. "You taste really good," she manages against Quinn's ear.

Quinn nips at her jaw in response and laughs lowly, a vibration Rachel can feel against her stomach. "Honey and Almond lip balm," she murmurs before going in for another kiss.

Rachel pulls back suddenly. "Honey?"

Quinn nods, her eyes, glazed over and confused. "Yeah."

Think of the bees, Rachel. Think of the bees, think of Quinn's bee-stung lips, her-

Quinn seems to get it and quickly digs into to her pocket and produced a little jar. "Animal friendly," she reads, squinting on the label.

Rachel sighs in relief, "Oh thank god," and Quinn wants to laugh, but Rachel's already covering her mouth.

And this time it's different, a little slower, a little longer, a little more intense. Rachel finds herself breathing harder and she's hot and she's sweaty and who knew a simple make-out session could be this…invigorating. Quinn's hands are at her hips, her thumbs digging into the soft skin there and Rachel can't help but wish more skin were exposed and all she can really think right now is _this, this, this_ and _more, more, more_. And also, _ow_, because there's something digging into her back and then Quinn's saying, "Maybe if you, um, hopped onto the counter it would be more comfortable?"

And that's how she finds herself with her legs wrapped around Quinn Fabray's waist, slowly grinding against her stomach. Kissing Quinn is unlike anything she's ever experienced. There are the old clichés of fireworks and supernovas, but honestly, those metaphors are way too grandiose for her understanding. Kissing Quinn is a visceral experience. It's entirely carnal. She's never felt more alive, more aware of her own body. She feels the blood pumping through her veins, the texture of the skin on her fingertips as they graze down Quinn's neck. The invisible tether that runs parallel down her front and goes taut every time Quinn sucks on her tongue and makes her rock forward, searching for that heat.

These are the things that make Rachel say the words. These are the things that seduce her into a false sense of security. These are the things that completely ruin any chance of further making-out, because the minute she says the words, the spell is broken and Quinn will back away. But she says them anyway, because she can't help it, because Quinn's hands are on her lower back pushing and rubbing and-what is that thing she's doing with her fingers? And because, well because she's Rachel.

"Quinn?"

"Mmm?"

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you."

And then like a sleepwalker suddenly awoken, Quinn's eyes pop open and she steps back. They're both breathing raggedly, their lips are swollen, their pupils dilated, there are probably a few more physical similarities a little further south, so to pretend this never happened would be a little unrealistic. Rachel knows this, she knows Quinn can't walk away from this. That doesn't mean she isn't terrified that she'll try.

The blonde in question is still staring at Rachel with a rather shell-shocked expression. Slowly, very slowly, Quinn raises her hand and runs her fingers over her lips, her eyes still fixed on Rachel's.

"Quinn," Rachel breathes, hating the tremor in her voice.

Quinn's already turning around.

"Quinn, please don't walk away from me again. I might just die this time." Rachel Berry is nothing if not dramatic.

Quinn stops in front of the cabinet next to the fridge and opens it. "I was just getting wine," she says softly, pulling out two bottles. She turns around and faces Rachel with an unreadable expression. "Red or white?"


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N**: Glad you guys liked the last chapter. Your responses were great. It helps to know that you're enjoying the pace or direction of the story, so don't be shy about leaving a review. Hope you like this one.

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

Graduation 2012

_The air was sweet. Sweet smelling and warm and everything a summer night should be. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, if she blocked out the thumping sound of music coming from the house, Quinn could almost imagine she was ten-years old again. Ten-years old and about to run out to collect fireflies after dinner. Ten-years old and happy because despite the glasses and the pimples, she was still daddy's little girl and mommy's sweet angel and there were still a hundred warm summer nights ahead of her. Now, when she opened her eyes, all she saw was the Puckerman's overgrown garden. When thinking became too tiring she began counting stars, because there were many things she hated about hicksville, Ohio, but the infinitely starry sky wasn't one of them. She heard the footsteps through the long grass about a second before movement caught her eye and prayed it wasn't some drunken idiot looking for a place to barf, because really, she was not in the mood. But then she turned her head ever so slightly and of course, of course it was Rachel Berry._

_And for a few moments, those fleeting moments before Rachel became aware of her presence; Quinn indulged herself and just stared. She stared the way she'd been wanting to since Rachel had first arrived at the party in a sinfully short cherry red dress and zebra-striped flats that made her look like a lollipop, waiting to be licked. She wondered for the umpteenth time how the brunette managed to dress so provocatively and yet remain clueless as to how gorgeous she was. And yes, Quinn was going there, because fuck it, she was leaving in a week and Rachel would be on the other side of the country and this simple fact hurt more than anything else she failed to acknowledge and for just one night she wanted to look at Rachel and allow herself to feel it. For just one night, she wanted to pretend that what she wanted wasn't impossible._

_And she was going to say something, she really was. Something like, "Hey, Rachel," and then, maybe she'd say "good luck" and "I wish you well" and then she'd leave and she'd have something like closure. But then Rachel saw her, and those eyes widened and Quinn was drowning and "Hey, Rachel" and "good luck" and "I wish you well" were replaced by this feeling that she couldn't articulate if she tried._

_And then Rachel was right up against her and the girl smelt like wine-coolers and she was so much sweeter than the summer air and then they were talking. Talking about speeches and regrets and all Quinn could do was feel, because the words she was saying were only sparks of the larger fire that was burning up inside and every time Rachel looked at her with that expression that seemed to say 'I want to know you' Quinn felt like she was about to be consumed from the inside out._

_Kissing Rachel was never a choice. To say it just sort of happened sounds callous, but one minute she was thinking about the distance between LA and New York and the next, she was tasting the sugary and slightly tart flavour of the wine-cooler on Rachel's lips. And she hadn't kissed anyone for months, but this felt newer than anything that had ever come before it. Kissing Rachel was a revelation, an epiphany, an affirmation of something that quite honestly scared the shit out of her. And yet she couldn't stop. Not when Rachel's skin was so warm and tasted so good, not when their bodies fit so perfectly, not when the sounds she made filled Quinn with the kind of desire that she had never before even conceptualised. But then Rachel's hips rocked against hers and that fire that threated to consume her seemed to implode somewhere in her lower abdomen and the sudden gush of warmth sent her into a panic. Because the distance between LA and New York was huge, and the distance between Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry was even greater. And Rachel was looking at her with this look that made Quinn think of words like 'relationship' and 'long-distance' and the only time she'd been more terrified was when she was pushing a human being out of her body. And so she ran. She ran because more than anything, she wanted to stay and staying was not an option._

_..._

Quinn stops in front of the cabinet next to the fridge and opens it. "I was just getting wine," she says softly, pulling out two bottles. She turns around and faces Rachel with an unreadable expression. "Red or white?"

"Uh, r-red, I guess." Rachel's voice is trembling and Quinn wills herself to not react. To look at Rachel would mean wanting to touch Rachel and wanting to touch Rachel is not something that can be happening right now. Not when touching Rachel equates to losing her mind and wanting to take the other girl right there on the kitchen floor and goddammit, she's so aroused right now, she's actually shaking. So she forces herself to keep her voice steady, she forces her facial muscles into a relaxed expression and lets out a breath.

"It's a good wine." She's reaching for the bottle opener now, proud of herself for sounding assured. "A 2006 pinotage." This acting thing isn't so hard, she thinks, as she uncorks the bottle. When it comes down to it, she's been acting for most of her life really. Hell, most of high-school was a carefully constructed role. It's only the last few years that she's been truly…free. But now there's Rachel, standing in her kitchen, asking her not to walk away and Quinn can't, she _can't _face Rachel when she's feeling this…much. She's too raw, too vulnerable.

"Quinn?" Rachel's voice is so tiny now that it breaks her heart.

"Can you get glasses?" she asks, not turning around.

She hears Rachel sigh and then the clinking of glass. She needs to turn around at some point since she doubts Rachel's content with having a conversation with her back, but truth be told, Quinn's scared shitless right now. She's scared because every ounce of self-control she's been employing for the past few weeks seems to be tenuously slipping away from her and she feels dangerously close to doing something stupid…er. It's not that she doesn't want to be facing Rachel or touching Rachel, or kissing Rachel, it's that she wants it so much; she's not sure how to function. And it's high school all over again, except Rachel's replaced Finn Hudson with some Hollywood hotshot and this time, she's self-aware enough to know what she wants. Their lives are completely different, universes apart. Logically, they cannot, should not, would not work. Yet logic is the last thing that Rachel tastes like.

She shuts her eyes for a second when she feels Rachel come up behind her. The shorter woman's body is radiating warmth and Quinn has to fight the urge to sink back into it. Instead, she exhales and finally turns around, finding herself backed up between the counter and a flustered Rachel.

"Rachel, listen I -" she's almost grateful when Rachel cuts her off, simply because she's not entirely sure what she's supposed to say.

Rachel takes a faltering breath before saying, "Quinn, allow me to pre-empt you. I—we," She runs her tongue nervously along her bottom lip. "As two consenting adults, we shouldn't have to apologise for giving in to our…primal urges. Quite honestly, I'd say it would be ludicrous if we didn't kiss. I mean, I put it out there and it's been on both our minds and now-well now it's out of the way and really, you're very attractive, still the most attractive woman I've ever met and I've had my fair share of red carpet encounters, so, you know. Um, we can, I mean," Rachel looks up at her with these big, imploring eyes, "We can go back to what it was before. Just don't retreat okay? We'll pretend it didn't happen."

It's the edge of desperation in Rachel's voice that really does it and Quinn finds herself whispering, "What if I don't want to pretend?"

Rachel sucks in a breath and Quinn says, "Let's-let's sit down, okay," she motions towards the couch.

Rachel nods and they move into the living room, holding glasses and wine and unanswered questions.

They sit down, facing each other, their knees not quite touching. Quinn busies herself with pouring the wine while Rachel looks on, uncharacteristically quiet.

She breathes a polite "Thank you," when Quinn hands her a glass, twitching slightly when their fingers brush up against each other.

It's almost ridiculous, the fact that minutes ago they were giggling over lip-balm, breathing each other's breath and now they can barely look at each other without blushing. Quinn wants to bury her head in her hands and groans exaggeratedly. She's twenty-six, not sixteen for christsake. This shouldn't be so hard.

"Do you – " "I wanted to –"

They both laugh awkwardly and Rachel shakes her head. "I'm sorry, you go."

Go where? Quinn wonders. Where do they go from here? There's honesty, there's denial and there's that fine line somewhere in the middle that she's gotten so good at walking. She knows what she wants in an abstract sense but making sense of it, laying it out in neat little lines is something she doesn't want to do because between those neat little lines lies only truth and the truth is going to be there long after Rachel isn't.

Quinn tugs her lower lip between her teeth as she contemplates her words. "If you could name one defining moment in your adult life, what would it be?"

"Getting cast as Eponine in sophomore year of college," Rachel replies immediately and Quinn laughs a little breathlessly, because really, that's such a Rachel response.

"Okay," she nods. "Well, for me," she begins carefully, "it was kissing you."

Rachel's eyebrows shoot so far up they disappear under her bangs. "Kissing me?"

Quinn smiles now because Rachel looks both shocked and confused and well, kind of adorable.

"Don't look so excited," she manages to make it sound teasing. "What I meant is, that that night at Puck's," she takes a much needed sip of wine. "Rachel, it was the first time I'd ever kissed a girl and quite honestly, it scared the living daylights out of me because it was the first time I'd ever felt…that way…about anyone. You-" Quinn shakes her head quickly to cut herself off. "_That kiss _made me feel something I'd never…" she trails off and looks at Rachel a little helplessly.

Rachel's frowning now, like she's a little offended. "And that was bad?"

"Of course it was bad, Rachel." Quinn's only half-aware that her voice has taken on the pitch of a teenage girl. "You were a girl and-and you were…_you_ - The girl I had spent years bullying, the girl I was just beginning to form a tentative friendship with. And there you were suddenly getting me wetter than the Niagara." Her eyes bulge almost the second the words leave her mouth and Rachel's wide-eyed expression confirms the worst.

"Holy shit. I said that out loud didn't I?"

"Mmm-mm," Rachel hums into her glass of wine, barely concealing her smirk.

Quinn feels herself go shades of fuchsia. "What I meant is, that it was scary, okay? And I wasn't ready to admit what kissing you meant."

Rachel's face is solemn now and she leans forward slightly. "What-what did it mean?"

"That I was gay." Quinn idly wonders if should consider tight-rope-walking fall-back career. She's got this whole honesty-denial thing down to an art.

Rachel, for her part bravely tries to hide her disappointment, but for all the acting skills, the brunette has always worn her heart dangerously close to her sleeve. "Oh, right, of course. Well," she gulps down the rest of her wine and makes a face. "I'm glad our…encounter gave you clarity."

"I'm sorry I walked away, Rachel," Quinn says softly, saying the one thing she's been meaning to say since the start of this conversation.

Rachel offers her that secret kind smile that makes the tiny dimple in the corner of her mouth appear. "You're forgiven," she says. "But only because you called my kiss life-changing."

"I didn't though."

"Yes, but it was implied."

Quinn snorts with laughter. "You're impossible."

Rachel kind of beams at her and they smile goofily at each other for a second before she says, "So, what now?"

Quinn runs her fingers through her hair and downs the last of her alcohol. "I've never been good at this," she says shakily.

"At what?"

"Talking." She looks at Rachel pointedly. "That's always been your talent, Berry."

Rachel rolls her eyes but seems to understand what Quinn needs, so she takes the lead. "Quinn, I-I think you know where I stand." Her eyes flicker nervously towards the painting on the wall, the one of the star she loves so much before she finds Quinn's face again. "I very much enjoyed kissing you. I-I would like to believe that you enjoyed kissing me. If, given the opportunity, I would not be opposed to engaging in a similar activity with you again."

It's like she's entered the twilight zone. The words coming out of Rachel's mouth are everything she's ever wanted to hear, yet they make no sense because the context is completely wrong. She scrunches up her brow.

"But…you're getting married?"

Rachel nods slowly. "Yes."

"And you're leaving in two weeks?"

Another nod. "Yes."

"So…" Quinn feels her stomach knot as the wine swirls violently. The words claw at her throat, but she manages to get them out. "You don't want a relationship?"

Rachel's eyes widen and she actually winces. "D-do you?"

She's beginning to wobble on the rope as one foot steps precariously in front of the other. It's not easy, in fact, it's fucking torturous half the time, but this balancing act is all she has right now and she's terrified of falling. So she swallows and says, "No." The crowd cheers.

Rachel exhales slowly. "You must think I'm an awful person." She looks away. Her eyes now fixed on the vivid, swirling colours in the painting. "If I knew me, I'd think I was an awful person."

"I don't think you're awful," Quinn says quickly. "God, Rachel, I'm the last person to judge. I mean, if you want to cheat on your boyfriend-"

"I'm not cheating," she interjects with a hint of panic.

And Quinn looks at her, startled. "Forgive me, but I seem to recall your tongue in my mouth a half hour ago." She knows she's being crass, but Jesus, there's denial and then there's whatever river Rachel's sailing on right now.

Rachel blushes crimson and looks down. "What I mean is…I'm not cheating on him-on David in the traditional sense, I mean it's not about...I don't want...This, this thing with you," she sighs, frustratedly struggling to articulate herself. "It's about _me_, not him. It's -" she looks so panicked now that Quinn's tempted to reach out and hold her or hug her or s_omething_.

"I _need_ this," Rachel states emphatically. She looks close to tears now.

Quinn swallows hard. She can hear her heart beating in her ears. "Rachel," God, she loves this girl. She's losing her balance now and she knows it, but with Rachel looking at her like that, what the hell else is she supposed to do, because honestly, was there ever any other choice?

"I look at you," Rachel says, "And Quinn, I know who I am. I know, wow, I know that sounds horribly melodramatic, but you knew me and with the exception of Kurt and well, now Puck I suppose, there aren't many people in my life who still remember who Rachel Berry was before all _this_. And when I -" she rolls her eyes in chagrin, "When I propositioned you, I think I was trying to get something of the old me back. The girl who loved y–" she stops abruptly and swallows, "Th-the girl who was passionate about everything. Who didn't allow her managers to micromanage her life."

Quinn's tongue feels thick as she asks, "What about David?"

"I love David," Rachel says in a firm voice and Quinn has to stop herself from flinching. "I _want_ to marry him." She's nodding now and looking past Quinn, like she's remembering something that Quinn will never be a part of. "I met David just after I ended my run of _Wicked_ and then I took my first movie role and after that everything kind of snowballed." Quinn watches Rachel's shoulders sag as she exhales and suddenly she looks so tiny.

"I've been moving further and further away from the stage," she continues in a dull monotone, "and the worst part is, I'm being showered with accolades for my film work, but all I want to do is sing. I just want to go back to basics and I feel like the people around me aren't listening and it's so frustrating, because this is supposed to be _my_ dream and it just feels like it's all going too fast and I fired my manager last week and Kurt freaked out cause he wanted to date him, and, and David, he's great, really supportive, but I know he hates New York and he wants to move to LA and I just can't see myself living there every day." She directs an intense gaze at Quinn. "I mean it's so sunny, Quinn! Like all the time! That can't be natural. And then I came here and you were here and I don't want anything you don't want, except, I look at you and I see that girl I used to be and I just think that for two weeks we could kind of just, have fun and forget about everything else and God, I know how selfish this is, but maybe if you wanted it too and I mean, I'd really like for you to come up to New York some time and you could meet David, cause he's really great, despite what I've just said and I'd really like you to meet Lola even though she tends to pee on new people, but we're trying to curb that and oh, god I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, you should probably stop me before I -

"Rachel, Rach hey, shh" and just like that Quinn's got Rachel in her arms and the other girl's hands are clutching at her back and Quinn's vaguely aware that's she's making comforting noises while Rachel takes deep shuddering breaths. And she's pretty fucking certain that this is the strangest evening she's had in a while.

...

The first thing she becomes aware of as her eyes blink open and sleep is reluctantly replaced by lucidness, is the warm heavy load upon her and the slow realisation that her limbs don't work. This realisation is momentarily replaced with panic before Quinn opens her eyes fully and realises that she is not in fact paralysed, but pinned down by the soft, sleeping weight of one Rachel Berry.

Rachel's head is tucked firmly under her chin with her arms are still wrapped around Quinn in a sort of lazy hug. She's breathing deeply, inhaling with little snores and Quinn finds herself awkwardly craning her head back in an attempt to see Rachel's expression. Her lips are parted and each warm breath that hits Quinn's collar bone and causes her to break into goosebumps. She has no idea what the time is, but judging by the crick in her neck and the way her ass has fallen asleep, she's pretty sure they've been lying here a while. She shifts slightly, attempting to find a more comfortable angle on the lumpy couch, and Rachel's grip instinctively tightens around her. Quinn freezes. It's impossible not to respond when Rachel's practically nuzzling into her now.

"Hey, Rach?" Quinn lets out a breath and kind of bounces her legs up and down, which in theory is supposed to wake Rachel up, but really, it just causes her to vibrate against Quinn, which really doesn't create the desired effect, because now Rachel's making these mewling sounds and practically burying her face in Quinn's neck and oh god, did she just purr?

This is way too much, way too fast and Quinn's fast feeling the effects of claustrophobia. And suddenly, she's not quite sure if she is ready for Rachel to wake up after all, because Rachel waking up unavoidably means Rachel talking and asking questions like, "What does this mean?" and "Where do we go from here?" and honestly, Quinn doesn't have the faintest clue where to go. All she knows is that she's so tired of playing this part and walking this thin, fragile line when falling for Rachel seems to be less of a choice and more of inevitability. And she's not stupid, she knows she's setting herself up for heartache if she goes with this, but where's the exit ramp? How is she supposed to say, "No, Rachel, I don't want to kiss you again, or touch you or comfort you," when every part of her body is screaming the opposite. The fact is, she survived just fine before Rachel Berry waltzed back into her life and she'd do it again after. But this space in-between, well this is what they have for now and Quinn supposes it's the 'for now' that counts. In the long run, life's made up of these intermittent periods anyway, right? Live in the moment and all that existential crap? Whatever makes this justifiable, Quinn's gonna go for it, because right now, Rachel's warm and breathing into her neck and…staring up at her.

Quinn jolts slightly when she tilts her head down and realises that Rachel's liquid brown eyes are focused on hers.

"Hey," Rachel whispers, offering Quinn a sleepy smile. She blinks as she re-orientates herself with her surroundings.

"Hey," Quinn echoes, with a raised eyebrow and a teasing expression that has Rachel's smile turning sheepish. She quickly scampers off of Quinn, who immediately misses the warmth.

"Sorry," Rachel says, now occupying the furthest corner of the couch. "For, um," she gestures towards Quinn's wrinkled shirt. "Collapsing on you."

Quinn sits up and stretches. "That's what friends are for, right?" The wry glance she gets is just short of amusing.

"How long did we sleep for?" Rachel asks. And Quinn shrugs before craning her neck around to see the clock on the wall.

"It's almost four."

"That's…long," Rachel blinks and pinches the bridge of her nose with a tired sigh that has Quinn fixing her with a pointed look.

"Are _you_ okay?"

The brunette tugs her lower lip between her teeth and nods quickly before glancing at Quinn. "Predominantly embarrassed, bordering on mortified. I don't know what came over me, I shouldn't-" Rachel looks down with pursed lips, as if considering her choice of words. "I shouldn't have told you all that."

Quinn scoots closer without even thinking about it. The urge to comfort this vulnerable, insecure version of Rachel is overwhelming. It's a version that Rachel's never openly given her. It's always been Quinn as the broken one, Quinn as the fucked-up princess. In high school, Rachel would have turned to Finn or Kurt for emotional support and to be honest, Quinn would have been fine with it, because emotional Rachel terrified her slightly. But here's Rachel, admitting that maybe life isn't so peachy, that maybe she needs something from Quinn and all Quinn wants to do is make it all better. She absently wonders what the Freudian implications of the fact that Rachel brings out a slightly maternal side in her. It's not something she wants to dwell on.

"Rachel," Quinn waits until Rachel looks up and meets her gaze. "I'm _glad_ you told me all of that, okay?" She runs her fingers through her hair and lets out a breath. "I-I don't know what the hell we're doing, but I know that I'm glad you're here."

"Glad I'm here in Boston or glad I'm here in your apartment?" Rachel asks, looking up at Quinn coyly.

"Both."

"So," Rachel presses on, "we're okay?"

"Hmm," Quinn nods. "We are. We're okay."

Rachel shifts so that their shoulders are now brushing and the silence that envelopes them is heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable.

"What?" Quinn eventually asks when Rachel's sidelong glances become annoyingly obvious.

"Can I, can I say something without it being taken as a come-on?"

"I guess," Quinn answers, hating that that sentence alone already has her body tingling with anticipation.

"You have really amazing kissing technique, Quinn. Like, Olympic medallist amazing. You should be proud."

Quinn stares at Rachel's sombre face for a few seconds before breaking into uncontrollable laughter, because Jesus fucking Christ, only Rachel Berry would congratulate her on her kissing skills and make it sound like she was complimenting her dress sense.

"Oh my god," Quinn clears her throat once she can finally breath and runs both hands through her hair. "Thank you, Rachel," she says, smiling at Rachel who looks slightly put-off at Quinn's sudden outburst.

"You're welcome," Rachel responds tersely.

God, this girl would be the death of her. Do want breakfast?" Quinn gets up and offers Rachel her hand.

The brunette looks at it uncertainly. "Quinn, it's 4:25am."

"I know," Quinn says wiggling her fingers so that Rachel might take her hand.

"Fine," Rachel says, eventually allowing herself to be pulled up. "But no sucrose laden cereals." She grins when Quinn offers her an exaggerated pout. She doesn't actually want any of that sugary crap either, but it's fun to make Rachel squirm.

"What about bacon and eggs?"

"Quinn!"

"Fine! Just bacon then."

...

It's 7am when the sun eventually peeks through the clouds. The kitchen is a disaster area due to their prodigious quest for food. The search for bacon had been unsuccessful after Quinn had surmised that Puck had eaten the last and had promptly threatened to slaughter him and his future children. The only non-vegan breakfast items were either covered in sugar, fake-chocolate or some other substance neither Rachel or Quinn would touch. And they had resigned themselves to a morning of starvation until Rachel found an ancient box of granola muesli, an unopened bag of dried cranberries and half a carton of orange juice. This was exactly what they consume as they sit down at 5am to watch The _Return of The Jedi_. This time, when Rachel cries, Quinn has the tissues ready.

...


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **This was a mother of a chapter to write. I'm keen to know what you think about what's going on in Rachel (and Quinn's) head. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated

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><p><p>

**Chapter 12**

The wind is ruthless, causing the salty air to bite and nip at her skin with an icy venom. She shivers and wraps her scarf closer around her neck. The gulls seem unaffected as they dip and swoop above the choppy waves below the rocks. She watches them for a moment, her thoughts a myriad of confusion and conflict. She barely hears his footsteps until he's right behind her.

Her surprise at seeing him nearly causes her to fall from the rock she's precariously perched on.

"Jeremy?"

He struggles down the rocks to reach her, his face contorted with anxiety and hope.

"I thought I wouldn't find you."

Todd's voice is nearly lost in the wind and Rachel's wonders if they're going to have to ADR this scene later. He's crouching in front of her now, a little off his mark, but she doesn't mind. The thing about Todd is that they play off each other really well, so a little bit of improv here and there is generally okay.

"Jeremy, what are you doing here?"

Todd puts his gloved hands his pocket and she wishes she had gloves right now, her fingers are freezing but her character ran out without much forethought as to where she was going and gloves where the last thing on her mind.

"Don't go back there." He looks at her with those blue eyes and her heart breaks for this character.

"Jeremy, don't. Please, just…go, okay? I need you to go." The desperation in her voice is startling.

"Why? So you can go back to them? Goddammit, Andrea, don't you see? They're keeping you trapped. They want you numb and dead inside."

"Peter -"

"Peter's the fucking worst of the lot!" Todd yells this with so much venom that she actually winces, despite the fact that she knew the line was coming.

"He loves me," she says softly.

"Well ain't that grand, let's get him a membership card."

"Why are you doing this?" She wipes at the tear that slips down her cheek. The script has her crying a little later, but this feels more organic.

"Because love isn't enough," his voice is softer now. "You think because he was hand-picked by your parents that he knows a thing about you? You think because he's Jewish and rich and owns a fucking Bentley that he'll make you happy? Jesus Christ, Andie, wake up! This is not what you want! They've brain-washed you! They've got you on so many pills you've forgotten who you are. He's gonna build a prison around you, babe and if you marry him…" Todd chokes back a sob, "you'll die."

The tears that stream down her face are warm against her frozen cheeks. Why is she shaking so badly? Rachel has to force herself to breathe, the icy air suddenly burns and she finds herself almost forgetting her line. That never happens. Todd is looking at her with these big, expectant eyes and oh god, what's her line?

"I-I didn't think I'd see you again."

"I couldn't do it," Todd is saying. "I couldn't leave you. You're part of me, Andrea. God knows I wish you weren't, but," he smiles through his tears and if Rachel weren't so caught up in her own emotions, she'd be suitably impressed by his performance. "I can't escape you. I don't want to do this without you."

Rachel breaks into a sob now, her entire body shaking against the cold wind. "It's too late."

"No, no it isn't. We can leave. We can go anywhere, I don't care. We can start over."

"No," she shakes her head violently, "No, you understand," her voice cracks, "it's too late." And she opens her hand, revealing the empty bottle of Vicodin.

And Todd plays this well, the shock, the fear. "What did you do?"

"I didn't think I'd see you again," she repeats the line from earlier, her voice calmer now, almost sleepy.

"Oh god."

"I'm sorry," she says, barely seeing Todd's face through the tears. "I'm so sorry."

Todd starts to get up, but she reaches for his sleeve to pull him back down. "No, it's too late."

"We have to get you help," he's crying now, and even the gulls have gone quiet. "Andie, please." There's this pleading look on his face that they're almost definitely going to use in the trailer because it's dramatic gold and all Rachel can think about is how in ten minutes her character's going to be dead and Todd's character's going to spend the rest of his life wishing he had gotten to her sooner.

She's shaking now, but the cold has little to do with it. "Sometimes I have this dream," she's whispering against the wind and they're definitely going to ADR this later. "I'm little. It's before they put me on the drugs. I-I'm running through these sand dunes on a beach looking for something. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I'm so lost. And I hear my dad calling for me," she lets out a choked sob, "but I don't answer. And then you come out from behind one of the dunes and you're like six years old or something, which is nuts, cause I don't even know what you looked like when you were six."

"I was fat," Todd's wiping tears from his eyes.

She lets out a laugh. "You take my hand and I feel so safe and I know that it was you all along. You were what I was looking for. It was always you, Jeremy."

"Aaaand CUT! That was good, guys. Great even. Take five and we'll run through it before we lose the last of the light."

James' voice ripples through the air and Todd springs up. "Holy shit it is cold!" He's rubbing his gloved hands together and hopping up and down in an effort to generate some sort of heat. Around them, the crew is bustling, the grips are running around, messing with the lighting and all Rachel can do is breathe, breathe to keep herself from falling apart. She has no idea why she's this _affected_.

"Rach, you okay?"

She's barely nodding when a PA comes from behind and drapes a warm blanket around her shoulders. The young woman does the same for Todd who mumbles a 'thank you' before turning back to Rachel.

"That was fucking intense," he says, grinning at her with an expression of bright-eyed wonder that has her recognising why James chose him for the role of tortured hippie artist. "I mean, you always bring it, but man," he pulls the blanket closer around his shoulders, "You killed it just now."

Rachel lets out a breath to steady herself before nodding. "Thank you. You gave a very powerful performance yourself."

"Yeah," he scrubs his hands over his face. "I really think we've reached the emotional core of these characters, you know? It feels so real, so true." He smiles at her. "It's kind of beautiful."

She swallows. "Yes, it is." She gives him a weak smile before nodding towards their mobile-trailers. "I'm going to collect my thoughts before we resume, will you tell Grant to come get me?"

"Sure," Todd nods, "Hey, you want me to send over some coffee or something?"

"Yeah, that would be great. Thanks, Todd."

...

She shuts her trailer door and leans against it, taking big, gulping breaths. Her heart feels heavy, like it's in danger of sinking down into her stomach. Rachel makes her way over to her dresser and pulls her phone out of the drawer. With trembling fingers, she dials the number she knows by heart.

One ring, two rings, she sits down on the sofa in the corner and shivers against the cold leather. Three rings – "Hello?"

"Kurt?" her voice comes out strained.

"Rachel, just hold on a second." She hears Kurt yell at someone in the background, "Marco, send the rest of the cottons to the back, I have to take this." There's the sound of a slamming door and Kurt says, "I'm all yours."

"Kurt," her voice catches, "I'm in trouble."

"Rachel honey, what's wrong? Whatever it is, you can tell me. Unless of course I'm going to have to testify against you in which case it's probably best that you say as little as possible."

"No, it's –" she lets out an exasperated breath, "It's nothing like that."

"Is this about…" his voice goes softer, "what we talked about the other night?"

She nods, even though she knows he can't see her. "I keep _doing _this, Kurt."

"Doing what, Rachel?"

"Lying!" she exclaims as if it were perfectly obvious. "Lying to myself, to-to her, to David. It's utterly exhausting and I just can't." She waits expectantly for Kurt's answer and frowns when she's met with stilted breathing. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

"I'm not sure what you want me to say here, honey."

Rachel leans back against the sofa and brings her legs up under herself, suddenly feeling very much alone. "I-I don't either, I just need my best friend right now. I need someone to help me make sense of this" She inhales deeply, "Kurt, I kissed her."

"Rachel!" Kurt's tone is a mixture of disappointment and reproach.

"I know, I know," she's covering her eyes now as the weight of his rebuke comes crashing down on her. She feels like a little child, being scolded at for colouring outside the lines. She's always worked so hard to keep inside those lines. Not because she was forced to, but because she believed in them. Limits, lines, moral boundaries…Rachel liked to believe that, with the exception of a few errors in judgement, she abided by these rather well. "I kept telling myself it was okay, that it wasn't really cheating, but I can't stop thinking about it, I can't stop thinking about her. Her-her lips are like drugs. I feel like an addict. Not that I've ever actually taken drugs, well except for that one party in senior year, but I thought that was peppermint in the brownies, so it doesn't really count and when did I become this person? This isn't me."

"Rachel-"

"I'm not this person. I-I read the O Magazine, I'm very well-balanced,"

"Rachel!"

"I have a life-coach. People with life-coaches do not cheat! It's just, her, her lips and that scene-"

"RACHEL!"

She jumps when Kurt all but yells into her ear. "Yes?"

"Have you spoken to David?"

She licks her lips. They'd gotten chapped in the windy air. "David?"

"Your fiancé." Kurt expands, "Tall, fair and handsome."

"I -" She sighs heavily. "No."

Kurt seems to mimic her sigh. "Well don't you think you owe it to him to tell him how you're feeling? He's the third party in all of this, Rachel."

"I can't hurt him," she says softly.

"And you think what you're doing now isn't going to hurt him?" Kurt sounds tired now. "You're a lot of things, Rachel, but I never pegged you for a coward and I never thought you were this selfish."

It hits her hard, right in the chest and those tears that have been threatening to fall ever since she first stepped into her trailer suddenly well up. Rachel swipes a hand across her face and sniffs loudly.

"I'm _trying _here, okay? This isn't easy. I never thought, God I didn't expect to even _see_ her again let alone -" she wipes her cheek and blinks the rest of her tears away furiously. "Yesterday morning we watched Star Wars. _Star Wars_, Kurt," she says with a wry chuckle. "David's been trying to get me to watch that with him for forever, but the improbability of that large furry creature having any sort of intellect seemed too high, so I always made some excuse. As it turns out, Chewbacca is an incredibly gifted and articulate Wookie and this thing that was supposed to be my and David's, I'll now forever associate with that morning I spent eating granola muesli on the couch with Quinn. And honestly, I wouldn't trade that for anything. I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm just trying to make sense of it all." She doesn't know if she's reassuring herself or Kurt, but somehow, saying these words out loud is helping.

"I'm not judging you, honey," Kurt's voice is gentler now.

"Really? Because that's not what it feels like from over here." And now she's sniffling again, because she really needs Kurt to be on her side right now and she doesn't really know what the sides are but if there are sides, then she needs Kurt to be on hers. The knock on her door has her leaping up and she murmurs a quick, "Hang on a second," before moving to open it.

There's a shivering PA in a raincoat holding a steaming mug of heaven-sent caffeine. "Mr Schwartz said to tell you that the weather's not co-operating, so we're packing up for the day."

She gives the girl a smile and takes the coffee from her. "Thank you, Emma. Can you have my car sent here from the lot or are we being driven back?"

"Uh," she looks over her shoulder. "Mr Abernathy's having his car driven here, so I guess we can arrange to have yours get here as well."

She smiles brightly at the girl before closing the door against the cold sea air.

"How is it that you manage to get so much right?" Kurt asks once she brings the phone to her ear again.

"Charm," she says, sipping from her coffee. "I ooze it."

He snorts delicately on the other end of the line. "Rachel, I mean it when I say that I'm not judging you. I really just want you to be happy. From what I could tell, you were happy with David."

"I was, I am," she amends quickly. "David, he…he makes sense."

"And Quinn doesn't?"

"No, not really."

"And yet," Kurt says slowly, "You still can't escape her."

Rachel finds her heart lodged all the way up in her throat as she recalls the scene she had just shot. "I don't know if I want to," she admits quietly.

"Talk to David," Kurt says finally. "You owe him that much."

Rachel takes a deep breath. She feels both better and worse. "Kurt?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

He lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. "That's what best gays are for," he says sincerely, which has Rachel chuckling. And yeah, she does feel mildly better now.

...

By the time she gets back to Quinn's apartment, Rachel has every intention of packing up her things and heading back to the guest house. Playing house with Quinn was a lovely, foolish, misguided idea and she really shouldn't have intruded in the first place. The thought of not seeing Max…or Quinn first thing in the morning feels like an acute loss, but Kurt's right, and staying with Quinn, seeing Quinn every moment of every day is ultimately too tempting.

She's resolved to leave, power-walking down the hall, unlocking the door with fervour, completely and irrefutably committed…until she sees Quinn. Quinn in faded blue dungarees, splattered in paint with Max is beside her, his white t-shirt practically stained all purple with his own water paint. Rachel watches them bounce around the living room, paintbrushes in hand, shaking their blonde heads and singing along to some indie song from her teenage years. It's…magical. The way Quinn leans down, so that she's nose-to-nose with Max and belts out the line "Oooh la la, I've fallen in love and it's better this time than ever before!" Max responds with a little butt wiggle and then they're off jumping around the couch like hyperactive kangaroos.

Rachel shuts the door with a distinct click that has both the tiny blond and the taller blonde looking up. Max grins, Quinn blushes.

"Wachel!" Rachel matches Max's smile as he comes running up to her, arms spread. "We're celebwatin'!"

"Oh really?" She looks over to Quinn, who turns the music down and runs her hand through her hair then picks at the tangerine paint on the tips.

"Puck called," Quinn says, making her way over to Rachel and Max. "They're signed," she says, an expression of giddy excitement claiming her face. "Boston Specific is official."

"Official!" Max echoes. "Puck's a wockstar!"

"They're signed?" Rachel's eyes widen. "Ah!" She squeals and claps her hands excitedly while bouncing on her heels. "That's fantastic!"

Quinn's nodding in agreement. "I know, right? I mean, it's still early, but they're really doing it. God, I'm so…proud," Quinn finishes, rolling her eyes a little at the sentiment.

"Wachel, c'mon, dance," Max is tugging on her coat and pulling her into the living area.

"Oh, I don't know," she shoots Quinn an amused glance. "You were doing pretty well on your own."

Despite her protests, she turns up the music and proceeds to twirl Max around, laughing uproariously at some of the Puck-esque moves the boy exhibits. Quinn takes Max's hands and now they're all doing some weird backwards conga behind the couch and Rachel can barely speak, she's laughing so hard, while Quinn's just smiling at her with this open expression that she so rarely sees and everything she's been feeling for the past few hours just melts away, at least until Quinn says, "Don't use up all your mojo before tonight, Berry."

Rachel stops dancing and looks at her quizzically. "What's tonight?"

"We're celebrating," Quinn replies, twirling Max around until he's dizzy on his feet. "Puck and the band are on flight back and Van suggested we meet at _The Tub_ later." She stills abruptly when she notices the look on Rachel's face. "Unless you're not up for it?" She gets that specific, uncertain expression on her face that involves a furrowed brow and her lower lip caught between her teeth. "I just assumed you'd want to come."

"I do," Rachel says automatically. Sweet Barbra, what is she doing? This is exactly what she should be avoiding until she gets some clarity and speaks to David. Except now Quinn's staring at her with these expectant eyes and she so rarely gets to see this fun, whimsical side that she finds herself desperate for more. "I just…" she looks down. "What about this little guy?"

Quinn runs her fingers through Max's hair and he looks up at her adoringly. "He's staying with Hector and Paul for the night. Wyatt, their 3-year old, he's already had chickenpox, so it's fine. And Max loves them, right buddy?"

"Uh-huh," Max replies, sounding like he wasn't really listening to Quinn at all. "Wachel, wanna paint with me?" He points to a tiny canvas leaning on a small easel next to Quinn's. "I'm paintin' a camel for Mama. Wanna help?"

Rachel smiles down at him and offers her pinky finger for him to grip. "I would love to."

"Hey," Rachel turns when she feels Quinn's long fingers wrap around her wrist in a loose grip. She's watching her with an indecipherable expression. "Are we," she sighs and tries again, "Are you okay?"

Rachel's not quite sure how to answer whichever question Quinn's asking, so she manages a closed-mouth smile that's not entirely insincere and nods. "I'm fine. It was a rather gruelling shoot is all. I enjoy being challenged, but it can get exhausting."

"Come ooon," Max is pulling on the pocket of Rachel's jeans.

"I'm fine," she says again. And Quinn nods, releasing her grip on Rachel.

"Okay," she says softly.

As Rachel dips her brush into the bright yellow paint, her pulse is still racing.

…

"Wachel?

"Hmm?"

"Where's your Mama?"

She stills the mascara brush just above her lashes and looks down at Max. He's already bathed and in his batman footie pyjamas, looking shiny and spotty and clean. "My mother?"

"Yeah," Max hops climbs onto the edge of Puck's bed and sways his feet to-and-fro. "Is she at your house?"

"No," she turns to face him, dropping her hand down to her waist. "No, sweetheart, my mother is…" Wow, how to answer this one? "She's got her own house. She lives in a city called New Jersey."

"Oh." Max nods his little blond head. "Okay. My mama's lookin' for a new house for us. That's why she's not here."

Rachel frowns. "She's not on vacation?"

"No," Max begins to fiddle with the zipper on his pj's. "She's lookin' for a new home and I have to stay here and be a good boy for Quinn and when mama finds the perfect place she's gonna come and get me. 'Cept I miss Gopher. Mama said we had to leave him behind cause we couldn't bring him on the plane, but he's a good dog. Daddy said he was a good dog cause he had kind eyes. I miss Gopher," he finishes softly.

Rachel stares down at him, not quite sure what to say. Honestly, she's not quite sure he's talking about, but whatever it is, it's breaking her heart. She's also got the distinct feeling that Quinn's sister is _not_ on a cruise ship.

"Hey Max," Rachel beds down slightly, meeting his wide green eyes. "Where's your daddy?"

A light knock on the door has both of them turning.

"Hey," Quinn says with a smile, leaning against the door frame. "You ready?"

Rachel wonders if she's going to get carpet-burn on her chin from the amount of times Quinn causes her jaw to drop. "Quinn, you're gorgeous," Rachel blurts out. "I mean, you're always gorgeous, but…how do you do that?"

"Do what?" Quinn asks, looking down at her simple jeans, top combo self-consciously.

"Go from-from artsy waif-like beauty to," Rachel waves her hand along Quinn's body, "Sex goddess."

Quinn chokes out a laugh, "Says the woman whom Joan Rivers accused of being 'allergic to pants'," she eyes Rachel legs in a tiny dress with a pointed look which has the brunette chuckling.

"I'm just trying to get the attention off my nose."

"Well," Quinn openly checks her out, "I'd say you succeeded."

Rachel finds herself resisting the urge to pull on her hemline. It's impossible not to feel flustered under Quinn's blatant, albeit playful stare. "Can you give me a minute to finish my make-up?"

"Sure, I'll drop Max off in the meantime. Come on, munchkin." Max hops off the bed and hugs Rachel's legs.

"Bye Wachel."

"Goodbye, sweetheart," she bends down to kiss the top of his head. "Have a good time tonight, okay?"

"'Kay." And then he's off, bounding towards the door, Tony the T-Rex in hand.

"Rach?" Quinn says before Rachel turns back to the mirror.

"Yes?"

"Just so you know, I like your nose."

And there it is. A simple validation, an almost off-hand comment that Quinn says quietly, shyly and without reason. She's standing there, all dressed up for the night, her hair stylishly mussed, her eyes darkened with kohl, her lips dark and wet and the one word that springs to Rachel's head is _mine_. And really, when it comes to Quinn Fabray, 'mine' is just about the most dangerous word there is. Quinn has always reminded Rachel a little bit of a cat, one of those big, elegant cats you see on the Discovery Channel. Behind glass they're as cute and cuddly as your pet kitty, but try and put a collar on one and they'd bite your hand off. It's Quinn's terms or none. The strange thing is, Rachel senses that if the situation were right, Quinn wouldn't mind being someone's and having someone as her own. But the situation is far from right and she's got a fiancé on the other side of the country to prove it. That doesn't stop her mouth from moving into a broad smile or her eyelashes from fluttering slightly as she says, "Thank you, Quinn."

...

_The Tub_ is surprisingly packed for a Wednesday night. Quinn and Rachel come in through the back to avoid any crowds. They get the usual once-overs and a few obnoxious cat-calls from a group of drunken jocks eating curly fries at a table, but nothing that suggests Rachel's been recognised or going to be approached.

They see Puck and the gang about the same time Puck looks up and grins at them. No smirk, no suggestive wink, just a broad beaming smile that makes him look really adorable actually. Before Rachel can utter a word, she's crushed against Quinn in between Puck's giant arms. Her nose is squished up against Quinn's collarbone and Rachel's senses are accosted with pineapple and honey and dear Lord, if Puck doesn't let go now, she's either going to pass out or spontaneously orgasm based on memory recall.

But then Puck lets go and he's still grinning stupidly and Rachel finds herself grinning back. "Now we finally start the party!"

"Congratulations, Noah," Rachel says reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

"Your Jewish approval is appreciated, babe," he says, bringing out the wink and Quinn groans.

"Come, on, rock star. Buy us a drink."

Puck narrows his eyes at her. "You gonna be my groupie?"

She scoffs, pushing him lightly towards the bar where the others are sitting. "In your dreams."

"Yeah, I've had those," he says, causing Rachel to giggle.

Quinn rushes to the others and engulfs Vanessa in a hug that has Rachel simultaneously charmed and envious. This open, approachable version of Quinn will never cease to fascinate her. She wants in so badly. Vanessa winks at Rachel and once again, she's reminded of Santana Lopez. Last she heard, Santana was living in LA, married to some sleazy NBA player.

Bas stops in mid-sentence when Rachel sits down and just sort of gawks at her, causing her to wonder whether he suffers from some sort of mental disorder. That is until Puck claps him on the back and tells him 'to stop looking like a retard' and introduce himself. It's Rachel who first holds out her hand and Bas who offers his slightly sweaty one in return.

"I-I'm a huge fan," he says, his lips trembling as he attempts a smile. "Your work on _Red Periphery_ was inspired. I mean, I watched it like, a gazillion times."

"You mean you jerked off to it like a gazillion times," Puck interrupts, pushing a glass of whiskey and lime in front of Rachel. "What?" he raises his hands defensively when Rachel turns to glare at him. "That scene in where you're getting into the bathtub, that was -"

"-A body double," Rachel finishes for him.

Both Puck and Bas gape at her. "You're kidding," Puck says finally.

"Nope." Rachel takes a sip from her drink and makes a little groan of satisfaction as it goes down. "I have a tricky partial-nudity clause in my contract, so they got me a butt-double." She smirks when they look like she's killed their puppy.

"But that ass, that ass was-"

"Perfect," Bas finishes. He blushes violently when Rachel clears her throat. "Uh, not, not that that was why I'm a fan, I mean, I love Cameron's work for its artistic v-value. You were great as an artist. Your butt has nothing to do with it," he mumbles and Rachel finds herself holding back a giggle. He's cute, she thinks. In a dorky, 'I lived in my mom's basement and collected action figures till I was 25 kind of way.'

"What about the boobs," Puck asks, still looking intensely focused. "That really gay,"

"Noah!"

"Sorry, uh, quixotic," he smirks at her, "scene where you and that dude go swimming in the ocean and you take off your top. Where those a stunt boobs too, cause man, those were-"

"No, those were mine," Rachel says, barely controlling her smirk and Bas makes a choking noise before coughing. Puck laughs and slaps him on the back.

"Breathe, dude. Just breathe."

"There they are!" They turn to see a tall, lanky haired man wearing a faded AC/DC t-shirt coming towards him with a vaguely familiar brunette trailing behind him. Vanessa gets to him first and throws her arms around him. He picks her up in a bear hug and twirls her around as best the crowded pub allows.

"Who is that?" Rachel asks.

"Oh that's Joe," Bas says, "He had to get his kids to bed before he got here." Bas moves off his stool and weaves his way towards the older man.

"Ah." She watches Joe briefly hug Quinn and exchange one of those strange and intricate man-shakes with Puck.

It's the brunette however that catches her attention. Rachel politely returns Joe's introduction of "Hey," with a "Nice to meet you," and watches as he, Puck and Bas make their way somewhere behind the bar. Her eyes fall to Quinn who has barely spoken to her since they've arrived and is currently whispering in the ear of the short, giggling brunette. Rachel instantly despises her.

Her stomach knots up when Quinn's gaze flickers up and meets hers. "Rachel," Quinn gestures to the brunette, "You remember Jess, right?"

Of course. Jess, the waitress. Quinn's "you said you'd call but you never did girl." By the way she's looking at Quinn, Rachel guessing she got over it.

She puts on her best show face and extends her hand across the bar. "Hello, again."

Jess's lips pull into a tighter smile, but she takes Rachel's hand. "Yeah, hey."

Vanessa's gaze flickers between the pair. And she lets out a snort of laughter.

"Care to share?" Quinn asks with a raised brow that would have intimidated lesser beings. But Vanessa only shakes her head.

'We're gonna need more shots," she says, giving Quinn a pointed look that has Rachel squirming inside.

"Hey V-baby!" They look up to see Joe hauling a bass on stage. "Wanna…" The rest of his words are drowned out by the music pumping out of the speakers and Vanessa holds up her hand as indication for him to wait for her.

"I think we're playing a set," she says, turning to Quinn. "If you see my dad, will you tell him that Puck and I will lock up tonight?"

Quinn nods. "Yeah, sure."

"It's good to see you out, Jess," Vanessa says before turning to Rachel. "Hey, you're like, a big-time singer, right?"

Rachel looks taken aback, "I, well I wouldn't put it quite like that, but yes."

"Okay, come with me," Vanessa takes her arm. "I need help with this one chorus."

And then she's being dragged across the pub by one of the most beautiful women she's ever met and she has no idea where she's going or why, but the thought of leaving Quinn alone with Jess is making her panic and Vanessa's grip is really tight and Rachel wonders what an anxiety attack feels like, because the closing in her chest is really uncomfortable.

They stop just in front of the store room and Vanessa turns to her, her dark brown eyes intense and a little scary to be honest. "Okay, listen up. I've known Q for just over two years now and she's a fucking tough nut to crack. But once you crack her she's all squishy and warm inside, like a newly hatched egg. You get what I'm saying?"

"Uh…" Rachel's head is spinning. "N-no, not really."

The taller woman sighs. "When she's around you, she's like all cracked all the time and that mushy shit just comes dripping out. It's…nice," she says finally. "She needs someone like that. Now I don't know what the deal is between the two of you because Noah won't tell me anything, but if you like her, fight for her, okay? Don't let Jess scare you. I mean, you're short, but you look like you could take her."

The absurdity of this conversation suddenly outweighs the intensity of it and Rachel finds herself laughing despite everything.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing," Rachel sighs and wipes at her eyes, "I just, I see why Noah likes you."

Vanessa sort of smirks at her before saying, "Okay, now I've got to get on stage. I'll see you guys after."

"Wait, you don't need help with the song?"

"Honey," Vanessa's eyebrow raise rivals Quinn's. "Have you _heard_ me sing?"

"I'll take that as a no," she says with a small smile. "Um, and thank you, I think."

"Anytime."

...

When she gets back to their seats, Quinn's talking to the bartender and Jess is nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," she smiles when Rachel approaches and she swears her heart actually increases in size.

"Hi," she replies, taking the seat nearest to Quinn. "Where's your friend?"

"Bathroom," Quinn says, motioning behind her. When her gaze falls back on Rachel, she frowns slightly. Quinn's hand tentatively reaches out and lands on top of Rachel's. "You're okay, right?"

With a smile that's never felt more forced, she says, "Of course, Quinn. Why wouldn't I be?"

Quinn looks like she's about to say something when Jess comes up behind her, uncomfortably close behind her in Rachel's option, and blows in her ear causing Quinn to jump slightly and instantly retract her hand.

"God, Jess, don't do that," Quinn says, half-laughing.

"Sorry," she says, sheepishly and drags her stool closer to Quinn before plonking down. "I can't believe I got off tonight."

"How _did_ you manage that?" Quinn asks, sipping from her drink.

"Luck," replies with a wink. "Also, I might have bribed my manager."

Quinn clears her throat and looks at Rachel who tries her best to seem engaged by this conversation. "Jess works the most horrendous hours," Quinn supplies, trying to include Rachel in the conversation.

"Yeah, like one time, I was supposed to meet Quinn at 11 and I think I only got to her apartment at like 3am, right?" she looks at Quinn for confirmation, but it's clear she's attempting to piss on her territory.

Quinn makes a nondescript noise, neither confirming nor denying the statement and it's the smallest victory.

"You know I should thank you," Jess's gaze turns to Rachel.

"Thank me?" Rachel's voice is an octave higher than she'd like.

"Yup," Jess reaches past Quinn for her drink, grazing Quinn's chest in the process. Rachel feels sick. "After your little performance at Bolo's, we got some crazy traffic. You know, people hoping you'd show up drunk again. It was great for business."

Rachel's eyes flicker to Quinn who looks rather pale but doesn't say anything. "Glad that I could help," she murmurs before gulping down the last of her drink.

"Alright Boston!" They turn to the stage, where Vanessa is standing in front of the mic with Puck on her right, Joe her left and Bas behind the drum kit. "I don't know if you guys heard," she continues, "But our little band here just got ourselves a sweet record deal."

The crowd bursts into applause and one of the bartenders wolf-whistles. "So in celebration, we'd like to give you guys a taste of what you'll be getting when you buy our album."

Bas drumrolls and the crowd laughs. "This one's for you, Boston."

Puck launches into an intro before Vanessa's voice filters through the pub. And she's right, Rachel thinks absently, her voice is raw and full and makes you think about heat and sex and wow, she should really stop drinking now.

"Who writes the lyrics?" Rachel asks, leaning back towards Quinn.

"Mostly Puck and V write," she replies. As Vanessa goes into the chorus, Quinn's lips quirk up. "This is my favourite part," she murmurs lowly.

_It's all blood and fire  
>The taste of your desire<br>Has got me running circles in my mind_

_It's so hard not to take you  
>I'm terrified I'll break you<br>And baby if I touch you  
>Would you mind?<em>

"Come on, let's dance," Jess says, tugging at Quinn's arm. "Come on, Q."

"I'm not really in the mood, Jess," Quinn runs her fingers through her hair.

"Oh, come on." Rachel watches as Jess hops off her stool and wheedles her way between Quinn's legs. "Let's dance," she says, softer now, more intimately and Rachel feels her stomach turn. She can't watch this. She can't have these feelings. God, she can barely keep her face straight.

"Excuse me," Rachel manages, pushing her way past Jess.

She finds the bathroom after a minute of fighting through the crowd and by then she's biting on the inside of her cheeks to keep from crying. The bathroom is thankfully empty. She doesn't need this becoming a story on Perez. She just…God, she just needs to get away. She hates this, hates that she can't say what she feels. It's like she's fifteen years old again and watching Finn Hudson hold hands with the perfect cheerleader while she stands in the wings. And no, the irony is not lost on her. The fact that said perfect cheerleader is now the one causing her to break out in a sweat, causing her heart to tremble against her ribcage. She's so over this, feeling second best, feeling…like she has to fight for what she wants and yeah, she knows it's ridiculous because realistically, she has no claim on Quinn and Quinn can date and see anyone she chooses, but the thought makes Rachel ill and she has no idea how to escape it.

The fact that her reaction to all of this is so…physical terrifies her. She's always been intense. She's always been passionate. She knows she has the tendency to become slightly…obsessive. But the fact is, she's always been self-aware enough to understand where it was coming from, she's always been able to keep her priorities in check. With Quinn, she feels like she's flying blind through space, without anything solid to grasp onto. It's just a rush of feelings, feelings, feelings. And it's not always positive and it's not always on her terms and right now, it's all too much.

Rachel watches her knuckles turn white as she grips the edge of the sink. In any other scenario, she'd be thinking about the host of germs lining the porcelain, but she really just needs something to hold on to as she takes a few deep breaths.

The door swings open behind her and she straightens up only to find a pair of questioning hazel eyes meet hers in the mirror. Quinn's face is a tableau of concern.

"What's wrong?" her voice is low, cautious. She doesn't approach her immediately.

"Nothing, I'm just," Rachel lets out a shaky breath, "I'm tired. I think I'll take cab back to the apartment and I can start packing my stuff before Puck gets home."

"You're leaving?" Quinn's voice is suddenly so small that Rachel finds herself taking a step forward, as if proximity somehow equates to comfort. And God, even now, she's the one comforting. It's like the same old set, same old lines. Bathroom, confrontation, tears. It would be funny if it wasn't so predictably painful.

"I assume Puck will want his room back," Rachel says, keeping her voice steady.

"He's staying with Van," Quinn counters. "He-they're going back to Connecticut over the weekend, so he's staying with Vanessa. You don't have to leave, Rachel." The edge of desperation in her voice makes it so hard for Rachel to keep her cool. Why do you want me to stay, Quinn? That's the question she really wants to ask, that's the question on the tip of her tongue. But she doesn't. She doesn't because she's exhausted and the answer might just break her.

"I think it's for the best," she manages. "I mean, I've been thinking and maybe we do need space." When Quinn says nothing, Rachel continues, "You know, now that things have gotten slightly more…complicated. I just, I don't want to crowd you."

Quinn nods slowly and Rachel attempts a smile, but her lips feel like jelly. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

And the voice in her head is telling her to walk. Just walk, Rachel, just walk away and this can all be over. And you can clear your head and this whole confusing day can be put to rest. But her feet aren't moving. And now Quinn's moving forward. And they're so close, Rachel can smellher and hear her breathing and Quinn's looking down at her with this expression she's only seen a handful of times.

"You're trembling," Quinn whispers and then bites down on her bottom lip as she contemplates something.

Rachel looks up at her, those eyes, almost green in the cheap florescent light are overwhelmed by inky black pupils. And Rachel can feel her heart hammering so hard in her chest it's actually pushing her forward.

"Quinn." She means it to be a warning. But it sounds like a plea. Like prayer to some unknown deity. Quinn makes a small whimpering noise in the back of her throat when Rachel's hand comes up behind her neck to pull her down.

This time, all Rachel tastes is heat. It's wet and open-mouthed and more desperate than anything she's ever experienced. She doesn't know how she ended up against the grimy, lemon-coloured wall, but Quinn's hands are at the hem of her dress, pushing it up past her thighs, up towards her hips and all Rachel can do is gasp into her mouth because those fingers, those glorious slender fingers are digging into her flesh and suddenly there's a thigh between her legs. Rachel's name on Quinn's tongue is like a mantra that spurs her on. Heavy and laced with desire, she can't make sense of anything beyond it.

There's a part of her brain that knows this shouldn't be happening. Not here, not like this, maybe not at all. But there's also an increasing wetness between her legs that's taking all focus away from any intellectual processes that may be occurring and now Quinn's tongue is running past her jaw and oh God, how can she not respond when Quinn's making those sounds?

"Don't," Rachel breathes out, when Quinn's hand closes over her breast. "Don't go home with Jess tonight."

Quinn's lips still on her neck, but she doesn't move. "I wasn't planning on it."

"Good," Rachel's brain is a fuzzy mess. Why aren't Quinn's lips moving anymore? "I can't stand the thought of you with her."

Quinn's hands almost immediately fall away and Rachel feels like she's been doused with cold water. The look on Quinn's face as she stares back at Rachel is devastating. There's a coolness that hadn't been there a second ago and Rachel knows that the defences are up. She knows she screwed up.

"This is about Jess?" Quinn's voice is terrifyingly cold.

Rachel doesn't say anything. She can't. What she doesn't expect is for Quinn to start chuckling humourlessly.

"Jesus Christ, Rachel, you're fucking jealous? That's what all this is about?"

"Quinn, I-" she looks down at the sink, suddenly fixated by the long crack in the porcelain.

"You have no right," Quinn's voice is trembling and Rachel can't look up, can't meet eyes.

"I can't help feeling-"

"No," Quinn cuts her of with such force that she actually flinches, "No, you do not get to play the poor lovelorn victim here."

Rachel does look up now and Quinn's eyes are narrowed in anger. "Do have any idea what it's like? She's shaking now. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it is? Wanting you? Thinking about you, when you're waxing poetic about your perfect boyfriend with his perfect Hollywood life? Do you know what it's like, Rachel? Kissing you and knowing you belong to someone else?"

"Quinn-"

"So you do not get to be _jealous_, Rachel. And you do not get to have a say in who I do or do not fuck."

Rachel bites down on her lips to keep from releasing a sob. "This isn't my _choice_, Quinn," she's almost pleading. "I don't _want_ to feel this way."

"Yeah, well join the club." Quinn angrily wipes her cheek with the heel of her hand. "I think you should take that cab after all."

And then she's gone.

And Rachel's left alone in an empty bathroom.

...


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Welcome to 2012. I love everyone in this bar.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

There's a crack in the ceiling. It's not wide or particularly long, but it's there, punched into the paint, it's there. She stares up at it for the longest time, until it's no longer a crack, but a spider's web, a lightning bolt, a strand of hair that floated up and attached itself to the ceiling. She stares up at it for so long, her eyes begin to blur and those tears that sting stick to her cheeks and make them itch. The steady tempo of the breathing occupant next to her is mildly comforting and Quinn finds herself resisting the urge to bury her nose in that warm, soft, sweet-smelling neck. Being awake at the witching hour, when all the world seems to be far off in some dream is incredibly lonely. For the first time in a long time, she feels the weight of her self-imposed solitude. For a while now, this carefully constructed isolation was something she valued above all else. Getting kicked out at sixteen does that – teaches you to build walls, teaches you to rely only on yourself. By college she'd mastered the art of isolation. She didn't even have to pretend to be something she wasn't anymore. It was liberating. No-one knew her as the ex-pregnant, ex-crazy, ex-cheerleader so disappearing into obscurity wasn't difficult. She worked hard at blending in. And it worked. Until her economic history professor, a greying yet attractive man in his late fifties, who reminded her of Russell Fabray on his best days, who told her on the second day of class that he saw 'great potential in her' and whose approval she so desperately craved offered her an A on her final paper in return for a blowjob at the back of his 1972 Camaro.

It took everything she had to keep from throwing up on his shoes when he shook his head and told her he thought she was smarter than that, when he told her he was disappointed in her.

After she dropped out of 'Economic History' her major was impossible to finish and she failed the year despite perfect grades in all the other subjects.

Quinn met Rory the summer after her first year. She had no idea what she was going to do with her life. She remembered Santana once talking about this church in San Francisco, a church where her grandmother had gotten married, a church where she swore (though inebriated at the time) she'd marry Brittany one day. Quinn remembered this with a sort of bittersweet nostalgia.

This is where Rory had found her. In the third pew of an enormous empty Catholic Church off the corner of Parker Avenue. Aurora Cecile Davies. Born on a ship somewhere in the south-pacific while her father, a decorated Navy SEAL who died when she was seventeen, was on military leave. Quinn came to learn that she was one of those rare creatures who came from a functional family equipped with loving parents and a Labrador named Lucky. Without any inhibitions, she had plonked herself down next to Quinn in that cold wooden pew and whispered with breath that smelled like orange Lifesavers, "I like your hair." For the first time in days, Quinn smiled.

...

The knock on the door breaks her out of her reverie and Quinn turns to look at the clock on her bedside table before remembering that she's in Max's room and not her own. Gingerly, she gets out of bed, careful not to wake the sleeping boy. He'd woken up once she'd gotten him home from Hector's and she had stayed in bed with him until he fell back asleep. That was at least an hour ago, which means it's well past one am.

She left _The Tub_in a mess. She barely remembers walking out of the bathroom after Rachel only to lose her in the crowd of people. Jess had tried to convince her to stay, but Quinn was barely holding it together, her façade of cool slowly slipping and she needed to get out, she needed space, she _needed_ to take back those naked words she projected at Rachel. But the brunette was gone - like a succubus who stole a piece of her soul and disappeared into the night.

By the time she got to Paul and Hector's she was bordering on numb and fast heading towards cognitive dissonance. It was good that Rachel was gone, she reasoned. Having the brunette around was confusing at best, torturous at worst. Their argument was stupid and Quinn hated herself for showing her cards, but it had proved that neither of them was ready for whatever they were heading towards and perhaps Rachel was right. Space is what they need.

The knock on the door speeds up a little and Quinn makes her way through the dark living room, swearing under her breath when her bare foot lands on one of Max's plastic animals. The kitchen clock confirms the time: 1:53. She can't imagine who could be calling this late. Puck has a key and the last time an unexpected visitor turned up at her door, she ended up unofficially adopting a five-year old. So Quinn's a little wary as she approaches. She can't see anything through the keyhole in the darkened hallway, so she attaches the latch and cautiously opens.

The sight greeting her leaves her speechless. Literally. Quinn looks down at the shivering, soaking wet figure of Rachel Berry through the crack in the door and finds that she has no words.

"Can I-" Rachel's shoulders sag as through finally seeing Quinn has exhausted her. "Can I come in?"

Quinn nods, because her vocal chords seem to have gone on strike, and closes the door for a second to unlatch it. The funny thing is, for a moment, she considers leaving it closed. Leaving Rachel out there and getting back into bed with Max. Max who smells like limited-edition peppermint m&m's and doesn't require anything of her other than stories and regular feeding.

But she does open the door. Because something about Rachel's face, wet with rain, reminds her of Rachel's face, wet with Cherry Big Gulp and that image has her feeling sick inside.

"You're wet," Quinn says finally finding her voice.

Rachel brushes past her, literally drenched. "I forgot my umbrella," she says quietly, her dark eyes darting from Quinn's face to the floor. "I parked down the street and I didn't have an umbrella, so-" she shrugs and droplets of water fall from the tips of her hair onto the carpet.

"You need to get out of those clothes," Quinn says. "Your stuff is all still here. You should change." Her voice is toneless. She knows she sounds cold. Probably as cold as Rachel is feeling, but she doesn't know how to relate or where to start. She still has no idea what Rachel's doing here at almost two in the morning and really, she's too tired for more words. It seems the only thing between them is words. Words that suggest, words that comfort, words that confuse, words that hurt. She's tired of the words.

"Quinn, can we just talk? Please?" Rachel's looking at her now with this broken, desperate expression that makes her want to lash out and scream, because she hates, hates that she cares _so much_.

"Just," Quinn sighs and presses her fingertips against her eyes so hard, she sees lights. "Just get changed, okay, Rachel?"

"Quinn-"

"I'm going to bed," she says, turning around. She wants to go back to Max's room for the warm comfort, but ends up going towards her own bedroom, to a bed which is going to be cold and empty.

"I broke it off with David."

Quinn stops so abruptly she almost falls and hits the coffee table. She doesn't turn around though. She's not sure she can at this point. What is Rachel doing? Why is she saying this?

Apparently Quinn's silence is an invitation to continue, because Rachel goes on in that pleading, desperate tone that makes Quinn feel worse about everything.

"I-I called him and I guess we're on a break."

Quinn finally turns around. She realises they're still in the dark, which is silly and makes her feel like she's in some moody German expressionist piece, but neither of them has motioned to turn on the light, and the streetlamp shining through the window allows her to see the pained expression on Rachel's face quite clearly.

Rachel looks tiny, she thinks suddenly. She's dwarfed in that huge trench coat, stiff with water. Her hair's plastered to her head, even her eyelashes are wet. And she's staring up at Quinn with this look that screams "Say something! Anything!"

And so she asks, "Why?" in a voice so quiet, she hopes she won't have to repeat herself.

"I can't stand the thought of you hating me," Rachel replies in a voice equally low.

Quinn wants to groan at the dramatic statement, but it's spoken with just shattering sincerity, that she finds herself almost stumbling over her words to reassure the brunette, "I don't hate you, Rachel."

"But you would have," Rachel replies. "How could you not when I was starting to hate myself."

Quinn doesn't know what to say to this. What do you say to someone who's just broken up with their fiancé to ensure your good opinion of them? "Thank you" seems a little trite and she finds herself suddenly terrified of what this means, of what she wants this to mean.

That slow panic is starting to build up and Quinn feels her heart begin to pound dully against her ribcage, "I didn't-" she exhales slowly in an attempt to organise her thoughts. She doesn't want to say something she'll regret. She's good at that. Always has been. "You didn't have to call him."

"I know," Rachel is saying. She looks down, twisting her fingers together. "I did it for me, okay?" Her eyes are searching Quinn's now. Those brown eyes, swimming with feeling, urging Quinn to crack, to break out of whatever apathetic shell she's hiding in. "I did it because…you were right."

Quinn swallows hard. God, she can't do this. Why does Rachel ask so much of her? She always has, even in high school, even when she didn't know it. Just by being this force around her, by mouthing off about her dreams and ambitions, making Quinn hate herself for not being more, making Quinn want to be more. It was part of Rachel's appeal. Even then, she was the only person who could get past Quinn's arsenal of defences and leave her stripped bare of all the bullshit she padded around herself.

And now she's standing here, listening to Rachel prepares to dredge up the words she uttered in the bar, the words which basically left her an open, vulnerable wound.

"Rachel," her voice cracks. "Let's just go to bed, okay? We can talk in the morning." She desperately wants Rachel to say, "Okay Quinn, we'll talk in the morning." But she knows her too well too hope and Rachel proves her right.

"No, wait…please," Rachel's coming towards her, her boots, making squishy wet footprints in the carpet. She really should get out of those clothes, Quinn thinks. Now that Rachel's closer, she can see her trembling. "You were right," she repeats, pushing wet bang off her forehead and looking up at Quinn with those goddamn eyes. "Everything you said in the bathroom was true. I was selfish and hypocritical and you were right, I can't expect you to act a certain way when I'm acting differently, so…I spoke to David and I told him-"

"About me?"

"No," Rachel answers cautiously. "Like I said. This is about what I'm feeling, what I've been feeling for a while now." She looks at Quinn pointedly. "I told him I needed space."

Quinn tries hard to remain expressionless. "How did he take it?"

"He's confused," Rachel says softly. "I can't blame him, I mean,_I'm_ confused. I'm a mess, but I know one thing."

"What's that?" She doesn't want to know.

"I care about you, Quinn. I-I can't stop thinking about you." She says it almost apologetically.

"Rachel-" _Please, stop, don't, yes, you're saying everything I've ever wanted to hear…_

"I think about you all the time. Ever since we first ran into each other. And I thought, I thought it was just the remnants of some old schoolgirl crush, but, when I'm around you, I feel…" she wraps her arms around herself to keep from trembling, but it doesn't help, "I feel complete. And yes, that is incredibly hackneyed and I apologise for the cliché of it all, but I have no other way of expressing this feeling. It could just be that around you I'm happiest and when happiest, I'm the best version of myself and maybe I haven't been truly this happy in a long time, which really makes me sad and is contradictory to me being happy which makes me confused," she takes a breath, "but what I'm trying to say here is that this thing between us isn't just a product of residual high school feelings. It's something bigger than that. When we kiss it's like…" she makes a face as she tries to articulate her feelings, "God, it's like applause."

When Quinn gives her a quizzical look, she expands, "I just want more of it. And I-I can't be in a relationship when I'm feeling like this. And I'm sorry I thought that I could have it both, I was so stupid and selfish and you're worth so much more than this, Quinn. I'm so, so sorry." She uses a wet sleeve to wipe at the tears tumbling down her cheeks.

"Rachel, don't cry," is just about all Quinn can manage. She's literally digging her heels into the carpet to keep from taking those two steps and sweeping Rachel up into her arms in some big dramatic gesture. Everything Rachel's put forward is flitting around in her brain.

Rachel sniffs and swallows the rest of her tears. "Are we okay?" she asks in a quivering voice.

"Yes." Quinn final does take that step forward and takes the Rachel's wet jacket sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. "Come on," she says, giving it a light tug. "You should get out of these."

Without saying anything, she leads Rachel into her bedroom. She turns on the lamp and the room is immediately encased in a warm orange glow. Both of them blink against the light. She leaves Rachel standing in the middle of her room and walks to her bathroom without saying a word.

When Quinn comes back, Rachel's holding her wet coat in her hands and standing in her dress, the same dress from the pub, which is also soaked through. Just how far did she walk, Quinn wonders. She's visibly shivering now, looking so tiny, standing in the middle of the rug. "There's a fresh towel on the hamper and your old toothbrush is still there." Quinn looks down almost shyly, "I guess I forgot about it." She holds out a pair of cotton sleep shorts and a long-sleeved Red-Sox shirt.

Rachel takes the clothing from Quinn despite the fact that she has her own pyjamas just a bedroom away. "Thank you."

Quinn nods and gestures towards the bathroom. "Yeah. You can…" She sits back on the bed with a tired sigh, "I'll just…"

Rachel just hugs the clothing to her chest and nods. "Thank you," she says again, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Quinn waits until she hears the steady stream of water before she falls back with a thump and pulls her pillow over her face. The stuffy darkness is claustrophobic, so she ends up throwing it across the bed and just lying there, staring up at another ceiling, this one is crack-free. Although there is a strange dark spot in the corner that could be mould. She hears a faint humming coming from the bathroom and is instantly brought back to the situation at hand. At this point, Quinn is pretty certain that she's fucked. The whole denial thing she had going for her earlier in the evening is totally screwed now that Rachel's here and has basically confessed to having feelings for her and she's quite certain that her own feelings for Rachel aren't going anywhere. This of course leaves them in strange and dangerous territory that involves communication and honesty. Two things Quinn's never been particularly good at.

Without even thinking about it, she's reaching for her phone on her bedside table and pressing speed-dial.

It rings five times before Puck's sleepy voice grumbles on the other end. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to call."

"You wanted to call?" He clears his throat. "At 3am in the morning you called to chat? What the fuck, Q? I was dreaming about winning NASCAR. Are you sure you're okay?"

It's at this point that Quinn realises she seriously needs more friends. Preferably friends with vaginas. It's not that Puck's a bad friend, it's just that he's…not as sensitive as she'd like. Unfortunately, he's also the only one who really gets her.

"Rachel's here," she says softly, even though the spray of the shower's still going strong and there's no way that Rachel can hear her over the noise.

"Yeah, well, that why I'm here, right?"

"Right," she says, not really wanting to get into everything. "It's just-" she sighs into the phone and hears Puck get up and close a door somewhere.

"Come on," he sounds more alert now, like he's resigned himself to the fact that he's not going back to sleep anytime soon. "Tell Uncle Noah what's wrong."

She snorts without meaning to, "Firstly, don't ever call yourself that, it's creepy. Secondly…she— well she broke up with her boyfriend."

"Shit," he whispers. "She say why?"

Quinn rubs a hand over her face. "No. Well, yes. She said it's because she's not being fair I guess to either party. Which is true, I mean if she does have these so called feelings for me, then-"

"Wait," Puck's voice makes her pause immediately. "Did she actually say that? She said she has feelings for you?"

"Well," Quinn frowns. "She didn't actually use those words, but it was heavily implied, yes."

"Well, shit, Q, what are doing on the phone with me?" She actually sounds like he's smiling and Quinn's frown deepens.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've got a newly-single, hot as fuck Rachel Berry in your house. A girl who just confessed her feelings for you, a girl you've been in love with for like, forever and you're on the phone whining about what exactly? I mean, you should get in there. Tell her how you feel. Do one of those big love speeches you see in the last ten minutes of a Julia Roberts movie then get your lady lovin' on."

Quinn practically growls into the phone. "God, why did I think that talking to you would give me even an ounce of perspective? What do think this is, Puck? We're not in some romantic comedy where happy endings are guaranteed or your money back. I can't just declare my love, if that's even what this is. I can't just lay her down in a candle-lit room and make love to her, despite how badly I want to."

There's a low moan on the other end.

"She's New York," Quinn continues her rant, not really caring anymore who she's ranting to, "I'm Boston. This is my life. Here. I can't just… I mean. She just broke up with her fiancé for God's sake. She's not making rational decisions right now. I just," she sighs heavily and ruffles her hair in frustration. "What am I supposed to do, Puck?" she sounds lost now - a little girl asking directions to a place she shouldn't be going to anyway.

"I guess," Puck pauses before saying, "Just take it slow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "And don't do that thing where you push her away, okay?"

Quinn swallows. "Okay."

"And Q?"

"Yeah?"

"When she says she has feelings for you or cares about you, believe her."

Quinn sucks in a breath, "She didn't actually say-"

"Listen," Puck interrupts. "It's impossible to know you and not fall in love with you. Believe me, Fabray, I'd know. So just give yourself a break, okay?"

"Yeah," she whispers into the receiver, "Okay."

"Good. Now, scram. I have a warm bed and a hot brunette in it who I can actually have sex with."

Quinn rolls her eyes at this, but finds herself smiling. "Night… and thanks."

"Sweet lesbian dreams," Puck murmurs before hanging up and leaving Quinn with the dialling tone.

…

It's another half-hour before Rachel gets out of the bathroom. She exits in a cloud of steam, wearing an apologetic expression. "You're out of hot water."

"That's alright," Quinn says, trying to contain her yawn. She's sitting at the edge of the bed, pretending to read a worn copy of Atwood's _Surfacing_. It's not really her go-to novel, but she likes the way the words kind of swirl around her head. "How are you feeling?" she asks, taking her glasses off the second she remembers they're perched on her nose.

"Warmer," Rachel replies a little sheepishly. Her hair's a bit fuzzy from the quick blow-dry and the sleeves from the Redsox sweater hang over her fingers - all in all, Quinn thinks she looks fourteen. Rachel looks down at her feet. Her toes are painted a pretty shade of pink.

"Quinn, I-"

"Listen, Rachel -"

They speak over each other and Quinn laughs awkwardly. "You go."

"I wanted to apologize. For everything. In hindsight I realise that showing up here at 2am was a tad impulsive and could have waited until morning."

"No, I-" she tosses the book aside and stands up. In bare feet, she suddenly notices their height difference and how Rachel would fit perfectly just under her chin. "I'm glad you came."

Something flickers in Rachel's eyes before she says, "You're not mad? It's just, you seem…" she trails off.

"I'm not…mad." Quinn says slowly, choosing her words. "I'm…terrified," she quietly admits.

"Of what?" Rachel's voice is small.

"You." Quinn gives a mirthless chuckle. "I think I've always been a little terrified of you, Rachel. Everything about you is just so big," she rolls her eyes when Rachel's brow furrows. "I don't mean you're big. You're actually really tiny. I mean you're confident. You've always been so sure of yourself. You were everything I never was, and I think, in the beginning I hated you for it. Then maybe, maybe I envied you for it."

Rachel's brow scrunches up even more. "But, you had everything. You were popular and smart and so, so pretty, I mean sure there was the pregnancy thing and the homeless thing and the brief period of insanity, but Quinn, you were just so…cool. Wanted to be you."

"Yeah, well by the end of high school, I think I just wanted to be _with_ you." Quinn licks her lips before she continues. "Not consciously. I don't think I really figured it out or admitted to it until much later, but Rachel with you, there's always been _something._ And now you're here and you're talking about your feelings f-for me," Quinn stutters. Rachel stares, barely breathing. "And you, you just broke up with your fiancé and I know you say it's not because of me, but it's 3:30am and you're standing here in my bedroom which sort of makes it hard to validate that claim."

Quinn takes a step forward and she finds herself looking down at Rachel. "And I'm terrified, Rachel. I'm terrified, because I want this, with you, whatever this is I want it so badly I can hardly stand it. But I can't help feel that we're going about it all wrong. Like we're, I don't know, like we're two planets in the same solar system, but on different orbits and no matter how hard we try, we can't sync up." She rubs her hand over her face after a second. "God, I just realised how incredibly lame that sounded." She attempts a wry smile. "I'm afraid that after midnight I'm all out of wit."

Rachel lets out the breath she's been holding. "I thought it was rather poetic actually."

Quinn rolls her eyes, but manages to smile. She sits down at the edge of the bed and looks up at Rachel. "So, what now?"

Rachel cocks her head to the side and pretends to think hard. "I don't know. All I know is that I care about you. Perhaps more than is prudent at this point, but I've never been particularly cautious in matters of the heart." She shrugs. "My fatal flaw I suppose."

Quinn finds herself intensely studying Rachel's face as she speaks. How this short, verbose, slightly neurotic young woman has managed to fuck her over so completely she has no idea.

Rachel's eyes, warm and dark in the lamplight stay fixed on Quinn's and something flares between them. It's not something Quinn can describe, nor is it sexual. It's more of an understanding, an acceptance that they've made it to another stage of their relationship. Whatever it is, Quinn finds herself leaning forward and tugging on the hem of Rachel's shirt until the brunette is knee-to knee with her.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asks, that breathless tone already beginning to creep into her voice.

"Getting you to bed." Quinn asks that patented brow-raise in play.

"Quinn, I have a bed," Rachel says as Quinn continues to finger the cottony hem of her sleep-shirt.

"But you're already here." Quinn looks up at her now, "And I want you to stay. Just to sleep." Rachel's eyebrows lift before those full lips pull into a wide smile.

"Okay," she says softly. "Okay, I'll stay."

They get in on opposite ends, Quinn lies on her back, Rachel lies on her side, facing her. Rachel's knee barely brushes Quinn's hip. It's close enough to be friendly but too far apart to imply intimacy.

"I feel like I've spent all night staring up at ceilings," Quinn says after Rachel flicks off the lamp. The darkness seems to push them closer together.

"I don't understand. Are you being poetic again?" Rachel asks from her side.

"No," Quinn laughs softly. "It's…nothing."

They fall into silence and Rachel's breathing evens out after a while. Quinn turns her head to see the slow and steady fall of Rachel's chest as she breathes. Her eyes trace the outline of Rachel's forehead, the bridge of her nose, the curve of her plump lips. She's staring at the subtle jut of her chin, when those lips curve in a small smile.

"Staring is creepy, Fabray."

Quinn swallows her gasp of surprise. "It's dark. How do you know I'm staring?"

"I can feel it," Rachel whispers. "I have a very keen 6th sense."

"Whatever," Quinn mutters, subtly moving closer. Rachel's knees are now firmly placed in her lap.

Another minute of silence goes by before Quinn's voice cuts through the darkness. "Hey Rach?"

"Hmmm?"

"You really get the same high from kissing me as you do from applause?"

Rachel's silent for a long time before she says, "Quinn, kissing you is like a ten-minute standing ovation."

Quinn wonders if Rachel can 'feel' her smiling. "Night, Rachel."

"Goodnight Quinn."

…

Quinn wakes up the same way she does every other morning – wrapped up in her duvet, with her head halfway under her pillow. She lies there for about half-a-minute before she stretches and then nearly squeals when her toe comes into contact with a naked calf. Quinn yanks her head out from under her pillow and squints against the bright-white winter sunlight. Her sleepy gaze focuses on one Rachel Berry, completely robbed of blankets, lying spread-out across the mattress as if she owns it. Feeling guilty, Quinn stealthily unwraps herself and attempts to cover some of Rachel. It's at this point that she notices the flash of ink on Rachel's hip. Quinn shoots a quick, surreptitious glance up at Rachel's face. She's out. Like really out. Slowly, with her eyes never leaving Rachel's face, Quinn gingerly tugs down the elastic waistband of the sleep shorts just enough to reveal the tattooed phrase on her hip. She bites down on her lower lip as she leans down close, squinting to read the cursive script without her glasses. _A little fall of rain._

"It's from Le Mis."

Quinn sits up so quickly, she ends up bouncing back, causing a now very awake Rachel to chuckle, her voice husky with sleep.

"How did you do that?" Quinn asks, running her hand through her hair in an attempt to tame her messy mane. "Your eyes were closed."

"6th sense," Rachel says, leaning up on her elbow. "Do you have any?"

"6th senses?" Quinn leans back to check the time. 8:05. Hardly a decent time to be up on a non-work day.

"Tattoos," Rachel replies, pulling the duvet up to her chest.

"Uh, other than my very regrettable senior-year tramp stamp, no. No tattoos."

"Ah, I forgot about that," Rachel says with a smile. "That was a…interesting phase."

Quinn shoots her a wry glance complete with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting is one way of putting it."

Rachel turns to her suddenly with this face, this cheery, giddy face that makes her look like she's just stepped out of a kids cartoon or something. "Hey, let's go get breakfast," she breathes, practically bouncing on the bed.

"What?"

"Breakfast," Rachel repeats. "Come on, Quinn. Look outside. It's actually sunny. Granted it's probably freezing out there, but there's sun and I bet it's really pretty after last night's rain and we could just go get coffee or, or I could watch you consume a dead fried pig and just…let's go out."

Rachel's sudden exuberance confuses her, but Quinn can't say she isn't tempted. After last night, it would be nice to just get out and do something drama-free and pedestrian. She can't think of anything more pedestrian than eating breakfast, so she smiles. Rachel's enthusiasm is oddly infectious.

"Great," Rachel hops out of bed and begins walking towards the bathroom. "We'll have to bundle Max up really well though. I know he's out of the danger zone, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Oh, and there's this great little deli on Watson Street. They serve vegan pancakes. I don't know how you feel about banana, but…" the rest of her words are drowned out by the sound of the faucet.

It doesn't matter, because Quinn stopped listening the second she mentioned Max.

Quinn had forgotten about him. Rachel obviously hadn't. For some reason, this makes her feel unfathomably warm inside, like Rachel is slotting into her life, making an _effort_ to slot into her life and for this first time since bumping into her in that poorly lit Wal-Mart, Quinn begins to think that maybe, just maybe this crazy thing between them could actually work.

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><p>...<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Okay, so I know I don't really respond reviews individually, but there are those of you who have painstakingly reviewed every one of these chapters and there are those of you who really write the most thoughtful, helpful comments and those of you who make me laugh and shake my head and make me WANT to write this FOR YOU. So when I say_ thank you_, please know that I mean it. I anticipate about four more chapters after this one, so hold tight, things are far from over :)

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><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

She never envisioned that she'd be having a panic attack on a Saturday morning in a parking lot outside The Barnyard Deli on Samson Street. But here she is, one hand on the hood of some stranger's silver Volvo, the other clutching her chest as she struggles to inhale much needed oxygen. The frosty morning air rushes into her lungs and burns her nostrils, but still she gulps it down as if she's drowning.

She's vaguely aware of the voices behind her. The crowd gathering to her left. The opening of a car door. "Is Wachel okay?"

"She will be, honey. You just play with Tony, okay? I'll be back in a minute." The closing of a car door.

Two arms, warm and solid around her waist, pulling her in, keeping her above water.

"Rachel, sweetheart, you need to breathe. Come, on. Deep breaths, in and out."

Rachel fights against the tightening in her chest and leans back against the firm, soft body behind her. Those arms grip her tightly, securely and the hot flushes that pass over her in waves seem to ease slightly.

"There you go," that smooth, honey-warm voice is whispering against her ear. "You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, baby. You're gonna be fine."

Is she though? Is she going to be fine? A minute ago she was convinced she was dying. That the squeezing, burning sensation in her lungs was due to some sort of heart failure. Maybe it is, just not the fatal kind.

…

It began innocuously. A slight twinge of anxiety at the diner while she had watched Quinn attempt to convince Max that ice-cream was not in fact a viable breakfast option.

She remembers thinking how good Quinn was with him, even if the blonde did bury her face in her hands in frustration and growl out a "fine, fine, you can have strawberry ice-cream for breakfast. But _no_ sprinkles, mister!"

She remembered their high school graduation. Shelby was there with Beth. She remembered Quinn holding the little girl as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She remembered watching as Quinn tickled Beth with the tassel of her graduation cap and how the little girl's giggles filled the crowded hall.

She remembered wondering if she'd ever be that good with kids, her kids and then for the briefest, sweetest moment, thinking that maybe Quinn would be around to teach her.

She and David had talked about kids. It was one day during their trip to Key West. After an afternoon lounging about in the sun, they had gone back to the hotel room and made love until dark. His skin had tasted like the ocean. "Our babies are going to be so beautiful," he had said in a gentle voice as his fingers threaded through her hair. "You want babies?" she had asked, fighting off sleep to look up at him with a soft, adoring smile. He looked down at her with those blue eyes that made her feel so safe and so loved and said, "I want everything with you."

Rachel remembers this around the time that Max is licking the ice-cream from his bowl, inadvertently getting his nose covered in pink. Quinn is saying something about the gallery, at least, Rachel thinks she is, because her lips are moving and she gesturing a lot with her hands like she tends to do when she's excited and Rachel hears the words, "Banks said," and "But I told Hector," but the rest is all drowned out by the sudden feeling of being shoved underwater. She feels separated from the rest of the diner, like she's on the outside looking in, except she's not. She's still sitting at the table, with Max shovelling ice-cream in his mouth and Quinn now staring at her with that tiny frown line in the middle of her brows. And her heart, oh god, her heart feels like it's about to explode and not at all in any good way and suddenly, she has to get out, out where there's air, because apparently all of it has been sucked out of The Barnyard Diner and she's suffocating! How is no-one else suffocating? Is this what death feels like? Is this dying? She mumbles something about air, at least she thinks she does, and that couple in the corner, the one that have been staring at her, like they can't wait to blog about her since they first entered the diner, they look up with interest and whisper something. The problem is, outside is so bright that she can hardly open her eyes and where is the oxygen? She's trying to breath, but there's no air. And really, she's too young to die, even if this would make for one hell of an E! True Hollywood Story. She squints against the sun, making her way towards Quinn's car, parked right in front. If she can just sit down for a little while, just sit down and…why won't these hot flushes stop? She wonders if she caught a cold after last night's walk through the rain. The walk she took after her phone call with David and suddenly those pangs in her chest tighten and she's leaning against some stranger's dirty Volvo and Quinn's behind her after securing Max in his car seat and Quinn's arms are around her and part of her feels like this is exactly what she needs, like this is the only thing she needs, while the other part of her is fighting against it and all thoughts of Quinn just seem to make the air thinner and her heart beat faster.

"You're gonna be fine," Quinn is saying, in that voice that wraps around her and covers her like blanket. "Shhh, Rach. It's okay. Just breathe, baby, it's okay." She vaguely registers the terms of endearment falling from Quinn's lips and somehow that making breathing even more difficult and she wants to say this, but there's a flash of something and then another and Rachel knows they're in trouble, because this time, the lights are not in her head.

"T-take me home," she manages, turning around in Quinn's arms. They're too close. She knows they're too close and that _click, click, click_ is like an ill-times metronome and all she says is, "I'll be okay. Let's just go."

She allows Quinn to get her into the passenger seat, she allows her to buckle her seatbelt as she closes her eyes and sings "On My Own" in her head in an attempt to calm herself. They're pulling out of the parking lot when she realises that Quinn's hand is still on her knee and there's a tiny voice in the background asking the same question over and over.

"Rachel's not feeling well right now, okay, honey? You just sit back and play with Tony." Quinn looks into the rear-view mirror to shoot a smile at her nephew. But he's not placated and he leans forward as far as his car seat allows.

"Wachel? Are you sick? When I'm sick, my mommy wubs my tummy and Quinn tells me stowies."

"I'll be just fine, Max," Rachel manages from the front seat, her eyes shut tight, her breathing slow and deep. "Thank you for your concern."

"Wachel?"

"Hmm?"

"Sometimes I have a bath to feel better and Mommy or Quinn makes my hair spikey with the shampoo. If you want to feel better, you can bath with my cwab. He's blue. He can bweathe underwater."

"Thanks, Max. I'll keep that in mind."

"Okay."

"Wachel?"

Quinn's hand leaves her knee as she changes gears and for the first time, Rachel realises that Quinn's driving stick. For some reason, she finds this an interesting observation.

"Max, why don't we play the quiet game until we get home, okay?" Quinn is saying, as she turns left at the traffic light.

"No, I wanna ask a question. It's important."

Quinn looks like she's about to say something and Rachel cracks open an eye. "It's okay," she whispers, wishing Quinn's hand would come back to her knee. "Yes, Max?"

"What's you favowite colour?"

"Oh. My favourite colour?" She takes her time to answer. Somehow, the smooth motion of the car, the inane conversation with little Max has made her head less cloudy, her insides less scrambled. "Well, when I was younger I liked pink quite a lot, but I think now my favourite colour is lemon yellow."

"Like a lemon?"

"That's right."

"I don't like lemons."

Rachel actually finds herself smiling. "I find that lemons can be quite delicious, when mixed with the right ingredients."

"I think they're yuck." Max says definitively. And just like that, the conversation is over.

…

By the time they reach the apartment, Quinn's only spoken to her twice. Once to ask if she was feeling any better and once to ask if she needed water. Both questions were answered with a close-eyed nod.

As Quinn begins the great unbundling of Max and his many, many layers, Rachel heads to the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink with such force, for a moment, she wonders if her small hands are strong enough to crack it. She splashes water on her face, hoping to cool her skin and the flush below it and it helps, for a moment. She's just so unbalanced, suddenly tipping over to one-side, then the other and all she wants is the resolve of last night, the firm determination, and she thought that getting out of that bed, getting into the busy morning would wash away the guilt and ease her conflicting emotions, but the more the morning dragged on, the heavier the weight of her actions became.

She jolts in surprise when Quinn's reflection appears in the mirror. The blonde offers her a weak smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You feeling better?"

Rachel presses her lips together, meeting Quinn's eyes in the mirror. Her nod is barely perceptible. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Yeah?" That eyebrow arches up and that smile becomes a little more ironic. "So you don't want to talk about the fact that you had a full on melt-down in the middle of breakfast?"

Rachel huffs and turns around to face her. "I just, I don't know what happened," she says. "One minute I was there and the next it was like-"

"Like everything just sort attacked you at once and you felt like you being buried and couldn't breathe?" Quinn's eyebrow cranks up even further.

"Yes, exactly like that," she says in something like surprise.

"I went through my fair share of panic-attacks," Quinn says softly. "None of them fun."

Rachel exhales loudly. "I feel rather ridiculous now to be honest."

"Don't." Quinn takes a step further into the bathroom and sits down at the edge of the bathtub. She looks up at Rachel with big, sincere eyes. "You're allowed to feel overwhelmed right now. Especially after," she swallows and looks down for a second before meeting Rachel's gaze again and for a second, Rachel wonders how anyone has ever described Quinn as "closed-off' when her emotions play so clearly and so obviously over that perfect face of hers. "Have you spoken to David since last night?"

Rachel shakes her head and her bangs tickle her eyelids. She needs to get it trimmed she thinks absently. "I haven't heard from him at all, no." They're quiet for a moment before Rachel says, "It just, it all seemed so clear last night." It's as if she's pleading with Quinn to understand. Understand what she's not sure.

"And now?" Quinn's voice is low, almost hesitant.

"Now, now it's not as clear."

"Do you regret it?"

And that's the question isn't it? The question that's plagued her since she woke up next to Quinn, since their shared breakfast, since that moment in the diner.

Do you regret it?

Rachel bites on her bottom lip as she shakes her head, her eyes fixed on Quinn's. "No," she practically whispers. "I don't regret telling him, for-for all the reasons I mentioned last night I truly believe it was the right decision. I mean," she raises her shoulders with an exaggerated shrug before sighing and sitting down next to Quinn on the side of the tub. "I couldn't go on, not like that, not with the feelings I-I have." She licks her lips unconsciously and watches as Quinn's eyes dart to her mouth and yeah, this really isn't what this is about, but it's impossible not to feel a slight tingle in her belly when Quinn's sitting this close and looking at her like that. "I think it really just hit me," she continues, ignoring the way Quinn's hip is pressing against hers. "I mean, he's my, was-was my fiancé and we've been through so much and the thought of hurting him is," she looks at Quinn a little brokenly. "It's not easy."

"No, it's not," she replies.

"And part of me," Rachel looks down, because she's being honest here, but at times, being honest while looking at Quinn is rather difficult, so she looks down and runs her finger along the edge of the tub. "I guess part of me just wants to call him up when I feel like this, because he's always the one to make me feel better, except I can't because right now he's the reason I feel like this and I hate it. I hate that I've hurt so many people."

"Rachel?" Quinn's voice breaks slightly as she says her name. Rachel looks up and once again those eyes reel her in. "You're being honest." Quinn shrugs. "That's the best anyone can hope for. And I know it might not seem like it, but I'm here too, to make you feel better I mean."

"I know you are," Rachel says, looking up at Quinn with a teary smile. "It's just so tiring."

"Well nobody said it was easy."

"Nobody said it would be this hard."

Quinn's lips twitch and she leans down. "Did you just 'Coldplay' me?"

Rachel chuckles and feels surprisingly better. Like that weight's been lifted…a little. "Yeah," she says, wiping an errant tear that seems to have escaped. "Quinn?"

"Rachel," she mimics her tone exactly.

"Would you be opposed to a hug right now?"

"No, Rachel, I would not," Quinn replies, her arms already slipping under Rachel's to pull her in closer and suddenly she's replaying Quinn's soothingly words in her head. _It's okay. Just breathe, baby, it's okay. _And the shiver she gives against Quinn's body is completely involuntary but it happens nonetheless.

"You know," Quinn is saying against her ear, "I'd understand if you don't want to stay here for the duration of your shoot. If you needed space I mean. We'd still be okay. We could still see each other."

And Rachel's grip unconsciously tightens around Quinn, because she's just lost David and she knows she told Quinn she wasn't giving up one for the other, but right now it feels like the blonde is all she has and the thought of losing that lifeline, even for a minute is kind of devastating and so she grips on and buries her nose in that hair that smells like pineapple shampoo and says, "No, I like it here. Right here is good."

…

She doesn't plan on calling Quinn that evening, but it's been five hours of back-to-back shooting and she's exhausted and she really just wants to hear a friendly voice. The fact that said friendly voice just happens to belong to the woman who also manages to get her all hot and bothered is pure coincidence, Rachel assures herself. She's standing on set, under the huge 'no cellphones' sign, holding her iPhone to her ear, which has Todd walking by and pulling out his own iPhone, aiming it at her with a grin, presumably to take a picture which is going to end up on Twitter within the hour. He really is a social media whore. Rachel still hasn't quite recovered since she was told that Myspace no longer exists and leaves most of the tweeting and Facebooking to her PR team. She pouts prettily for Todd's snapshot and focuses back on her call. Quinn answers with a low, "Hey you," that immediately has heat pooling low in Rachel's belly and good lord, how does someone's voice _do _that?

"Hey yourself," Rachel answers. What are they doing? She thinks she knows what they're doing. It's amazing how…free she suddenly feels, how giddy.

"What's up?" Quinn asks as she munches down on something and Rachel scrunches up her nose at the sound.

"Nothing much, just bored and missing-" you? your voice? "Casa de Fabray." Nice save, she thinks quickly. "Watcha eating?"

"A PB & J on rye," Quinn replies, her mouth full. "How's filming going?"

"Slowly," she nods in greeting to one of the grips as they pass her with one of the steady-cams. "Actually," Rachel takes a breath, because she knows this is really why she called, but even so, it's a little daunting, "I might be even later this evening because um, Kevin, our sound guy, well it's his birthday and the crew are having a sort of get together later. It's not a big thing, but a couple of the guys invited their friends, so-"

"Okay," Quinn sounds mildly distracted, like she's flipping through something. Probably that photography magazine Rachel spied on the kitchen table that morning. "Well it sounds like fun."

"Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to stop by, you know as my date." There, she said it. It's out there.

"Oh," Quinn audibly stops chewing and presumably gulps down the rest of her bite. "Oh, Rach, I would, really. It's just with Max, I can't just leave."

"I know," Rachel's saying quickly, "I thought about that. So, I thought that perhaps you could ask Puck to come over for a few hours. It would really just be a little while and I mean, I don't really want to stay myself, but Kevin's a really sweet guy and I don't want to seem like the 'big star' who's too good for a little party and well, I thought I could show you where I worked." The whole thing comes out as a tentative question and before Quinn has a chance to answer, she's saying, "Well, think about it, okay? You know where the set is and when you get to security, just give me a call. Shooting ends at about 7, so any time after that is…fine."

"Okay," Quinn says softly. "I'll try."

"Great!" Rachel chirps, then cringes a little at her own enthusiasm. "Wonderful."

…

She meant it when she said things were going slowly. They're currently preoccupied with the flashback scenes and makeup has to be flawless and meticulous so she spends half her time being painted and prodded and the other half, trying to look asleep in a therapist's chair while the actress who plays her mother and the actor who plays her shrink pretend to fuck in the same room. It reminds her of her first year at NYADA and those exercises they would do in theatre group where they were split into pairs and one of them had to shut their eyes, while the other just moved around "touching without touching". It was all very Brechtian apparently. Now she just thinks it was bullshit. Even so, pretending to sleep for two hours is surprisingly tiring. Having to listen to your co-stars simulate sex for two hours is surprisingly arousing, more arousing, Rachel finds, than actually pretending to have sex, which she's done on many occasions and sometimes found challenging and other times found rather blasé, but never, ever arousing.

Now it's 19:20 and they're bringing in this ridiculously large cake shaped as a stage mic for Kevin, except it really sort of looks like a penis and Rachel's not sure if it's intentional or if her sexual frustration has reached epic heights. Todd starts a loud chorus of 'Happy Birthday' and pokes her in the ribs, urging her to join in. Rachel rolls her eyes, but jumps in whole-heartedly, winking as she jokingly ends with the Marilyn Monroe version of the song, causing Kevin to flush red and grin. She's so in her element, she hardly hears her phone ring.

It's the vibration against her pocket that eventually has her fumbling and digging it out. "Hi," she manages a little breathlessly.

"Hi." Quinn sounds like she's smiling. "You wanna get down here and tell this nice security guard with the scary face to let me in?"

Rachel laughs. "Norman's a sweetheart, really. I'll be right there." An odd sensation takes hold once she puts the phone down. A certain nervous energy seems to flit through her body, which is strange in itself because she really has no reason to be nervous. But she takes her intuition seriously and so she feels anticipatory excitement, as if she were on the verge of something great. She doesn't know what it is, exactly, but she's hoping.

She walks down to the parking lot which is really just an area cleared out for the cast and crew and gives a little wave to Norman who lifts his beefy hand up and waves Quinn in, showing her where to park. The blonde looks like a hipster goddess, Rachel thinks absently as she watches Quinn make her way across the lot. There aren't many people who could pull off the skinny jeans, with a striped tee and suede jacket without it coming across as a little pretentious, but Quinn looks born to play the part. That mouth of hers splits into a smile as she approaches and Rachel's caught in surprise when Quinn hugs her.

"Hi." Warm breath against her ear. Warm heat in her belly.

"Hi," she murmurs in response, resisting the urge to snuggle further into those arms when Quinn pulls back.

"So where's this party?"

"Well," Rachel lets out a breath of laughter, "It's not so much a party as a cake-eating activity, but come on, I want you to meet the cast."

She systematically introduces her "friend", Quinn to the party and their dates and she marvels at how effortlessly Quinn manages to charm them senseless. Rachel wonders if she even knows how spellbound she has them. Quinn's always been beautiful, she's always been charming, but there was that distinct air of 'don't fuck with me' that she carried so tightly no-one dared get too close for fear of being stung. Those who did, inevitably got stung. But now, she's…freer, more open and that charm just drips like honey. Rachel finds her hand unconsciously tighten on Quinn's bicep as James leans closer, a little too close to ask Quinn about her work. As if sensing her disquiet, Quinn's hand falls to Rachel's thigh, in what she guesses to be a gesture of comfort or reassurance. Honestly, she doesn't know what to make of it.

They're sitting at a table, covered by a cloth and Quinn hand goes unseen underneath. Her grip is gentle, but possessive and the closer James moves, the tighter Quinn grips. "I'm yours," it seems to say, "Don't worry," it seems to say, "I'm here", it seems to say. And here's good, Rachel thinks.

She moves closer, bumping her hip against Quinn's in an effort to hear what James is mouthing. "So we've established Dali, but in terms of the general surrealist movement?"

Rachel's eyes move to Quinn who nods. "Well, if you take someone like de Chirico for example…" Behind them, a few of the sound guys turn up the music and James leans even closer, supposedly to hear her, but honestly, Rachel thinks, he's practically sitting on Quinn's lap, which is really just…inappropriate. She's about to mention something about personal space, when that hand, that smooth palm resting just above her knee slowly glides up until Quinn's long, elegant fingers are poised on the inside of her thigh. She jolts at this point, because really, Quinn's hand is right _there_, and she's facing James, talking about freaking _Dadaism_, a word Rachel had no idea existed until a few moments ago and how is she supposed to keep a straight face when all she can think about is clenching her legs together and capturing those fingers between them.

"So the piece," James is murmuring- and sweet Barbra he's practically leering at her! "You'd call it a sensual journey?"

"Oh very sensual."

Rachel squeaks.

She squeaks as Quinn squeezes and slowly, ever so slowly moves those fingers higher until they're just brushing the 'v' of her…well, 'v'.

Rachel opens her eyes and realises they were closed, then realises that both Quinn and James are staring at her, the latter with an expression of concern, the former with an expression of contained amusement. "Are you alright?" James is asking. "You look flushed, sweetheart."

Her eyes dart to Quinn's, and even in the low lighting, she can make out the thin gold ring around those inky pupils. Quinn's lips part slightly and it looks as if she's about to say something, but she just grabs her lower lip between her teeth and fixes an almost predatory gaze on Rachel.

"Y-you know, I'm um, I do have a bit of a-a headache." Rachel's already standing up and the loss of Quinn's hand on her skin feels like the loss of a limb.

"Emma's always got paracetamol in her purse," James offers, motioning towards his PA.

"No, I think I'll get an Advil in my trailer." She looks down at Quinn with a beating heart, "Quinn, would you like to join me?"

"Yes." It's whispered, but she's getting up and Rachel's filled with that jittery excitement all over again. She's up and walking out of the marquee, hoping Quinn will follow, not daring to look back. When she does eventually feel the blonde's presence beside her, Rachel glances over for a second and Quinn meets her eye, but neither of them speak, as if whatever's happening right now, whatever this moment is, it's too fragile to be vocalised.

They enter her trailer – and still that silence, following like a familiar stranger. The oxymoron is not lost on her, but her mind's aflutter and she can hardly think, so grammar is the last thing she's prudent with.

She turns on the light and they're infused in a pleasant yellow glow. This was one of the few things she had insisted on. The trailer was small and not at all like some of the luxury ones she'd had before, but as long as she didn't have to put up with that awful buzzing from the florescent lights, she was fine.

"This is nice," Quinn says and she almost jumps. Quinn's voice sounds strange, slightly echo-y in the giant tin box.

"I like it," Rachel replies, because she does. And she turns to find Quinn close behind her, so close that she takes a step back to create some sort of breathing space, because she's certain, that one would get high off the smell of pineapples and honey-almond lip balm. Quinn shrugs off her jacket and tosses it on the couch. They're not here to get pills. They both know that. The thing is, Rachel's not entirely sure what they're here for. This strange and wild mood has descended. She feels…reckless and at the same time terrified. Quinn's fingerprints still linger under her skin.

"I can't believe you still have this."

She turns to see Quinn holding a framed photograph of the Glee Club after their Sophomore Year Sectionals win. 16-year old, pregnant Quinn is standing between Matt and Santana, smiling brightly at the camera. She watches as Quinn runs her thumb over that faded image of her younger self.

"I dug it out again after we ran into each other," Rachel admits, coming up next to Quinn to stare at the picture. "I like it here though. It feels right."

"God, we were so young." Quinn gently replaces the frame and turns to Rachel, her expression unexpectedly vulnerable. "Do you ever-" She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair.

"What?" Rachel urges. Suddenly, this has become incredibly important. "Do I ever what?"

"Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we had, I don't know….if we had been together…back then?"

Rachel feels her heart claw its way up her throat as it attempts to escape from her mouth. She looks down, unable to meet Quinn's gaze. "Sometimes," she says quietly - which is true. She doesn't wonder all the time. There was a period, just after graduation, when she was consumed by 'what-ifs' and 'might-have-beens' but that's long since been laid to rest. "Sometimes I wonder if we'd have been happier." She looks at Quinn, whose gaze is so intense, she feels almost physically moved by it. "I think we would have been."

"Are you happy _now_?" Quinn's voice is low.

"I-I think I am," Rachel answers finally.

"Then I guess it doesn't matter." Her eyes flicker towards the photograph and Rachel thinks it does matter. It matters a great deal.

It's a strange thing, bringing up the past and all its ghosts. That edgy excitement Rachel felt all evening is suddenly replaced with something deeper, something older. A yearning she tucked away and trained herself to forget about is creeping through and she's trembling with it, actually trembling. And those 'what-ifs' and 'might-have-beens' don't seem so dead and buried after all. It's this look, this look on Quinn's face that's always been able to just tear her to pieces. This open, vulnerable look that no-one else gets, on-one else is privy to.

"Quinn?" she takes a step forward and their chests are brushing against each other.

Quinn's response is a mere sigh through parted lips and Rachel tilts her chin up a fraction before asking, "Are you ever going to kiss me again?"

Quinn's mouth, hot, full, wet is on hers in seconds. So consuming, so demanding. Like a child, she just takes and takes, leaving nothing for Rachel, no breath, no life, Quinn takes it all. Rachel gasps. Like a fish pulled from salty waters, she gasps against Quinn's greedy mouth, greedy hands that fight to touch skin. She not sure when her top is pulled over her head, but at some point, Quinn's hands are on her breasts, on her hips and those fingers, those delightfully long and dexterous fingers are bruising her skin as Quinn's mouth, still hot, still full, still wet, works its way down her jaw to suckle on her pulse point. And Rachel's gasping, she's gasping, because dear god, nothing, _nothing_ has ever felt like this, not even sex and she's never wanted something so badly and when Quinn's thigh comes to rest between her own two thighs she has to stop herself from thrusting wildly against the other woman's body.

"You taste so good," Quinn is murmuring against her neck and Rachel moans when the blonde nips at the sensitive skin there. It's tortuous, sweetly torturous, being sandwiched between her dresser and Quinn Fabray. That gently rocking, slithering, sliding body. And at some point, Rachel seems to realise that if she pulls high enough, she can get Quinn's top off, so she does and the offending piece of material falls to the floor, which essentially leaves Quinn in only a bra and breasts practically eye level. The benefits of Rachel's height are rare, but there. She's frustrated with material, because there's too much between them, always too much between them, so she yanks the damn bra off and then Quinn's nipple is in her mouth and it's swirling around on her tongue and just the thought of having Quinn's nipple in her mouth is getting her wetter than she's ever been.

"God, Rachel." Quinn's hands tangle in her hair roughly and bring her mouth up to be kissed. Rachel wants to protest, because having Quinn's nipple in her mouth is an incredibly euphoric experience, but Quinn's tongue is a close comparison and soon she's grinding down on that thigh while Quinn rocks into her hard and fast. The dresser's rattling and she's moaning and she's pretty sure that if anyone put their ear to the door, there'd be no question as to what was happening, but right now, but she can't give a flying fuck, because she's riding Quinn Fabray's thigh and she's about to come and that's really all she can concentrate on.

She moans long and low when Quinn jerks up, causing the seam of her jeans to rub just the right way and suddenly she's spiralling. Rachel's halfway to oblivion when she realises that Quinn's undoing her button and pulling down her zipper.

"Wai-" she tries for words, but verbal skills seem to have left her. "What are you-?" The rest of that sentence (that wasn't going anywhere anyway) is cut off by Quinn's skilful tongue and then Quinn's thumb is on her clit, just the lightest of touches and Rachel's world explodes in a kaleidoscope of colour and sound.

She's falling. Like, like her first winter in New York. She remembers looking up and seeing dozens of pretty white snowflakes, gently, unassumingly falling from the sky, minding their own business. She's kind of falling like that. Except not at all. Her eyes flutter open just in time to see Quinn gently extract her hand from her underwear and wipe her fingers on the thigh of her jeans.

"That was-" Rachel exhales a trembling breath. "Overdue."

"You make it sound like a library book," Quinn says running her tongue across her top lip and threading her fingers, oh those fingers, through her hair.

"I promise you, Quinn," Rachel counters, grinning wildly as she zips up her jeans, "That was infinitely more exciting that any library book I've ever read."

"Well," Quinn clears her throat and throws Rachel a sultry look that has the brunette giggling, "I aim to please."

They stare at each other for an endless moment, both aware that the rules of the game have just changed for good. There's that spark again, bouncing between them, lighting them both up from the inside out. Rachel's the first to break the silence.

"I do believe you've cured my headache, Quinn."

Quinn's lips pull into a smile. "I suppose we can go home then."

"Yeah, I'd like th-"

The sound of her ringtone breaks the moment and Rachel pulls it from her pocket quickly. The caller-id identifies Kurt and she sighs before hitting the reject button. He can wait. The whole world can.

She turns her gaze to Quinn and smiles widely. "Let's go home."

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><p>.<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N**: SO, I wish I could have updated this sooner, but it was literally a case of new country, new city, new job, new apartment...you get the idea. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the wait. If it doesn't, direct your abuse at the reviews section. If it does, direct your telepathic cookies and sexual favours at the reviews section.

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><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

**...**

Quinn never imagined that she'd be taking relationship advice from Cosmopolitan magazine. At least, not _this_ Quinn. High school Quinn, or more accurately, pulled-back ponytail, cheerleader Quinn had worshipped the glossy mag as if it were her bible. As a 26-year old lesbian, she found herself decidedly less interested in "How to Help Your Man Find That Mythical G-Spot!" Her g-spot was far from mythical thankyouverymuch. So, the fact that she found herself browsing through the magazine (most probably left there by Van at some point) as she munched on her PB and J sandwich, rather perturbed her. What she found even more disturbing was her particular interest in an article entitled, "Attack of the Green-Eyed Monster? 5 Ways To Spice Up Your Relationship and Make Him Yours Forever." Tip # 3 was how she found herself with her hand riding up Rachel Berry's thigh in public. It's not that she was jealous or anything – Rachel's relationship was over or at least on hold. So really, she had no reason to be trying to "make Rachel hers forever". Except, she can't help but conjure up this scenario where she's on one side of this corridor and David's on the other and they're both calling Rachel's name as if she were a puppy or something, forced to choose between owners. "Come on, Rachel! Come on, girl!" The scenario is totally absurd, but it haunts her. And if she's honest with herself, like really, painfully, hurts-to-go-there honest, the thought of Rachel not choosing her, the thought of her bounding or re-bounding back to David is kind of unbearable. And while Rachel's post-breakfast breakdown was perfectly justified and hell, even expected, Quinn can't deny that it sort of terrified her, because how could she not see it as Rachel regretting her decision? How could she not see it as Rachel taking a step towards David, a step _away_ from her?

She hadn't planned on going to the see Rachel that evening, she hadn't planned on any sort of wily seduction, but seeing her in that parking lot, with that smile, and that hair and that little dimple at the corner of her cheek and all elements that so specifically made up Rachel, the only word flitting through Quinn's mind was _mine_. And Quinn understood that sometimes, in extreme situations, one had to play dirty to get what one wanted. And really, it was too easy. That spark between them seemed to ignite the second Quinn pulled her in for a hug and burned hot and bright between them even before Quinn first snuck her fingers along Rachel's thigh. That spark that drove them up and towards her trailer. They both knew it would happen. They both knew it was inevitable.

And yet, looking down at Rachel, the moment before she kissed her, Quinn wasn't thinking about David or puppies or parking-lot panic attacks, it was all about them in that moment, all about Rachel. Feeling her, taking her, absorbing her until there was nothing left. Quinn had never before been struck with such an intense need to connect with someone, not just physically, but on almost psychic level. And then, well then it was over and they were left with pieces of each other firmly embedded inside.

"Do you think it's possible," Rachel says as they stand across from each other in what Quinn thinks may be the slowest elevator in existence. "That our high-school issues could have been solved by a good fuck?"

Quinn's eyebrows shoot to her hairline as Rachel smirks at her like a naughty kid and her own lips curve into a slow smile. "Honestly, Rach, I think if you'd have suggested it back then I probably would have had a nervous-breakdown. I wasn't very…" she catches her lip between her teeth as she contemplates her words, "self-aware. It's, uh, it's taken me a while to get here."

"Well," Rachel pushes herself off the carriage wall and ends up flush against Quinn. "I like you here," she whispers, her breath warm and sweet.

Their kisses are becoming less desperate Quinn realises as she languidly sucks on Rachel's bottom lip, urging her to open her mouth. They're kissing like lovers, like they have time, like there isn't a clock ticking over their heads.

…

Rachel buries her face into the crook of her elbow to muffle out the sound of her laughter as Quinn drops the keys for the third time. "Shh!" The blonde mock-scowls at her, causing her to laugh louder. "What would Sue Sylvester say if she saw how terribly clumsy her head-cheerleader has become?"

Quinn snorts indelicately and shakes her head as she attempts one more time to unlock the door. "Firstly, I haven't been head-cheerleader for a very long time and secondly," she turns to look at Rachel pointedly, "You'd be clumsy too if you had somebody groping you in the hallway as you tried to enter your home."

"I was not _groping_!" Rachel whispers with indignation. "I was…" her brow furrows cutely and Quinn watches her think, "erotically exploring."

"Oh is that what they're calling it these days?" she replies, finally getting the door open.

They prepare themselves for Puck's lewd comments and innuendos. According to Quinn, he can smell sex on people the way sharks smell blood. This statement is met with Rachel's 'ew' face. He had been pissy about babysitting until she reminded him that he didn't actually have anywhere to go since Vanessa was out with her girlfriends anyway. It was the 6-pack of beer and the Keanu Reeves festival that eventually convinced him that staying was worth it, and Quinn had fully expected to find him in front of some shoot-em-up, but as they move into the strangely quiet apartment, they find his muscular form passed out on the couch. On the muted television, an expressionless Keanu Reeves has just been informed that "there is no spoon". Quinn puts her finger over her lips and gently extricates the remote from Pucks limp hand before turning the TV off.

She and Rachel move quietly out of the living room and it's in that moment that Quinn's heart begins pounding. She didn't expect to get to be alone with Rachel so soon. Both of them assumed that with Puck there, they'd have to dance around each other, at least until he left or fell asleep. But there he is, dead to the world and Quinn's entire body begins to vibrate with anticipation. They stop outside Quinn's bedroom and she automatically reaches for the doorknob when Rachel's voice stops her.

"So," Rachel rocks back on her heels slightly and Quinn tried to ignore the way the brunette's eyes rake over her body. "I guess this is goodnight?"

Quinn feels her heart drop to her stomach. She doesn't understand. Rachel's looking up at her through those long lashes and the eyes beneath are vulnerable, questioning. The change in mood confounds Quinn. Did she do something wrong?

"Do you want this to be goodnight?" she asks softly, because her one hand's still on the door and the thought of going in there without Rachel devastates her.

"I-" Rachel lets out a sigh. "I want you." Those dark eyes meet hers and Quinn tries to ignore the sudden flush of heat in her belly. "But…"

_But. _

Three letters, one syllable and Quinn feels nauseous. Her heart's pounding now as she waits for Rachel to say what happened in the trailer was a mistake, as she waits for her to mention his name. Fucking Cosmopolitan, she thinks savagely. What did they know anyway?

Needless to say, Quinn's startled when Rachel eventually says, "I'm sort of terrified."

"Of what?" The conversation feels vaguely familiar and looking at Rachel, Quinn is reminded of that seventeen year old girl, with a head full of dreams and a heart full of romance.

"This thing between us, it's-" she exhales tremulously and Quinn intertwines her fingers to keep from reaching out and smoothing the frown lines from Rachel's forehead. The brunette licks her lips and starts again, her eyes finding Quinn's with a sort of restless uncertainty. "I realize that this might sound ridiculous after what has just transpired between us, but I can't help feel that, that going in there is going to change everything. It's not just…it's not just a quick fling. It's like this confirmation of everything I've ever felt for you. And it's terrifying."

Quinn swallows. What is she supposed to say to that? She knows what Rachel is saying. Of course she does. But what are they supposed to do now? Where's the exit-ramp? She tries to keep her voice light as she says, "This from the person who propositioned casual sex just a week after we ran into each other?"

That intensity in Rachel's eyes never wavers. "It wouldn't have been casual, Quinn. We both know that."

"If you knew that," she runs her fingers through her hair, "If you knew that and you knew you were in a relationship, then why-"

"Because around you I can't think straight," Rachel winces slightly, "no pun intended. My logic, my reason, everything is destroyed and I feel reckless…free. I don't want that to end, she finishes softly.

Quinn watches her for a long moment then reaches out to take her hand. "Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Come to bed with me."

…

Quinn doesn't know what it means when the fierce intensity in Rachel's eyes seems to ease, or what it means when the anxious twisting of knots in her own stomach uncoils, but she knows that Rachel's hand feels warm and solid in hers and for now, that's enough.

…

There's a thick silence in Quinn's room. And when Quinn finds Rachel's eyes in the darkness, when she feels that ever-present jolt of electricity run down her spine, Rachel licks her lips and breathlessly whispers, "Is it weird that I'm nervous?"

"You don't have to be." Quinn smiles at her teasingly, "Although considering that we did not half an hour ago, yeah, it's a little weird."

"Shut up," Rachel cuffs her gently, but smiles. "That was different. That was you d-doing that for me." Even in the dim lighting, Quinn can see her blush tainting her cheeks. "I don't know if-" Rachel looks down at her hands, then looks up at Quinn again, "if I'll be as good." She's not playing coy, she's genuinely nervous, Quinn realises.

"Rach, do you mean to say that you haven't – I mean, you've never…slept with a woman?" Quinn whispers it almost conspiratorially and Rachel straightens, looking rather offended at Quinn's surprise.

"No, I have never been intimate with a woman, off-screen that is. I mean, there was my room-mate's sister who kissed me at one New Year's Eve Party, but I hardly think that counts as anything."

Quinn thinks of the way Rachel's hands felt on her and shakes her head. "Wow, I just assumed-"

"The general assumption that performing arts schools are akin to 1900's bohemian brothels where sexual experimentation is rampant and-"

"Rachel," Quinn cuts her off with a finger over her lips. "I didn't assume you had experience based on your attendance at NYADA."

"You didn't?" she mumbles, her lips still trapped under Quinn's index finger.

"No. My assumption was based on, well on the way you touch me. The way you know...what I need." Her voice goes husky as she utters that last part and Rachel finds herself smiling.

"So, I'm okay?" she asks in a low voice. Her eyes are darker now, practically all pupil and part of Quinn thinks it's amusing that positive validation seems to turn Rachel on. The other part of Quinn is not really thinking in psychological terms right now.

"You're spectacular," she murmurs as she leans down, her lips inches away from Rachel's.

"If you had any idea how much I want you right now," Rachel breathes and Quinn swallows a whimper.

"Show me."

Quinn breaks away from her and moves to the bed. She scoots up until she's against the head board, then sends Rachel a 'come-hither' look that has the brunette sucking in an anticipatory breath.

Slowly and never breaking eye-contact, Rachel gets onto the bed and crawls up, causing Quinn to wonder if she's ever experienced this kind of frantic desperation before. Her body is practically pulsating with tension, just wanting, waiting to be touched.

Instead of going in for a kiss, Rachel leans down and licks a slow path up Quinn's exposed collarbone. Quinn's breath hitches at the feel of her tongue on her skin. "Rach," she breathes out, with no intention of actually turning that into a sentence. Rachel's hand has now managed to skilfully unbutton most Quinn's shirt while her mouth continues its wet exploration along the blonde's jawline. "Rachel," Quinn manages, this time with intent. "Kiss me." In a second, that mouth is on hers in a hot, lazy kiss that has Quinn gasping at the sudden gush of wet heat between her thighs. Her fingers tangle in that thick brown hair to hold Rachel down as their kisses become frantic and she becomes vaguely aware of the hand travelling on a southward path along her torso. It's only once she feels Rachel struggle with the button of her jeans that Quinn's hips instinctively jerk up. The metallic sound of a zipper echoes through the room and Quinn groans into Rachel's mouth when Rachel's fingers – slowly, hesitantly creep under the constricted space of the denim to cup her through her underwear. "Oh god," she chokes out, bucking into Rachel's hand.

But it's Rachel who lets out a moan of appreciation, her breath coming out in laboured puffs. "You're wet," Rachel whispers, not daring to move her hand. "God, Quinn, so wet." Quinn knows this to be true. She's been practically soaked since having her fingers against Rachel in the trailer. Slowly, Rachel sits up and pulls her hand out and Quinn fights the impulse to cry and scream, "No, put it back in there!" There's this rapturous look of awe on her face as Rachel brings her hand up and stares at the lingering moisture on her fingertips. Her gaze flickers to Quinn, who can't, for the life of her, look away from Rachel's wonder-filled expression. Deliberately, Rachel brings her three fingers to her mouth and sucks them off. Their moans are simultaneous. "Jesus," Quinn breathes out before reaching out and fisting the material of Rachel's top to drag her back down.

"Do you have any idea," Quinn gasps out between wet, open-mouthed kisses, "how fucking sexy you are?" To be able to finally say these words to Rachel, to be able to finally just be honest and let go is amazingly liberating. Rachel lifts herself up and Quinn finds herself looking into those almost-black eyes. For a moment, she's struck by the oddness of the position. Quinn rarely finds herself looking up at her sexual partners. She likes control and keeping boundaries is so much easier when she's on top. Yet something about this dynamic, something about the way those surprisingly toned forearms flex on either side of her head, something about the thought of Rachel Berry essentially "taking her", has Quinn throbbing with arousal.

"I used to think about this," Rachel says breathlessly as she grinds down to meet Quinn. They're both still in jeans and the contact is limited at best, but Rachel's rolling her hips to create as much friction as possible. "When we were in senior year and I was with Finn, I used to think of you," she lets out a broken sigh when Quinn's hand comes up to cup her breast. "L-Like this. I used to imagine what it would feel like. What _you_ would feel like. Once I even-" the rest of her words are lost in a groan, when Quinn's thumb slides over her nipple.

"You even what?" Quinn is suddenly desperate to hear it all, to hear how Rachel fantasized about her, how Rachel wanted her. Jesus, the thought alone is almost enough to get her off. There's the emotional aspect too, the fact that she wasn't alone in it back then.

"Once I thought about you while Finn and I were…" Rachel buries her face in Quinn's neck and breathes, "I came so hard that time."

Quinn lets out a strangled sound and pushes Rachel up. Okay, enough teasing, it's time for pleasing. Quinn almost laughs as the celibacy motto comes to mind, but then Rachel's pulling her top over her head, and removing her bra all in one graceful motion and Quinn suddenly feels like a teenage boy looking at his first centre-fold. All she can think is _breasts_. And Rachel's are amazing. She leans up on her elbows to take one dark, puckered nipple into her mouth which has Rachel arching back, one hand in her hair, one hand on Quinn's shoulder and Quinn thinks it just might be the most beautiful thing she's ever seen in her entire life. She focuses her attention on her other breast before Rachel's tugging on her hair, hard. She angles her chin up to catch Rachel's mouth in a kiss that has her falling back against the pillows. Rachel wastes no time in peeling her shirt open and Quinn leans up, allowing the brunette to pull it off. She threads her fingers through Rachel's hair once more and really, Quinn thinks, as Rachel begins kissing a slow path down the column of her throat, there should be a national monument dedicated to her hair and the way it feels between Quinn's fingers.

"You're beautiful," Rachel's murmuring through kisses as she makes her way down Quinn's squirming body. "So beautiful, Quinn." She wonders if this was what Aphrodite felt as Sappho endlessly worshipped her through poetry and art. She wonders if Rachel's tongue could be declared a work of art.

Quinn sucks in a breath when Rachel reaches the open 'v' in her jeans. Her hips automatically lift up and Rachel takes the not-so-subtle hint and begins dragging the denim down Quinn's legs. "Fuck." Rachel utters as her gaze drags back to Quinn's drenched underwear. Hearing Rachel swear in that reverent tone has Quinn's eyes rolling back in her head. She places a sloppy kiss against Quinn's hipbone and nuzzles against her, her finger just teasing the lacy waistband of Quinn's panties.

"Rach, please," she's panting now, practically clenching to keep from humping the air. How does one remain dignified when Rachel's mewling against her like a fucking kitten, that mouth barely brushing her skin. Every cell in her body is trembling with need and Quinn's pretty certain that if Rachel doesn't touch her in the next few seconds, she's going to do it herself and make Miss 'Take My Time' watch as punishment. But then Rachel's thumbs are hooking into the sides of her sticky underwear and pulling down.

"Oh Quinn," is the whimper from Rachel's lips and Quinn practically sobs in relief when Rachel positions herself between her thighs. "You smell like marshmallows," she whispers and her warm breath tickles. Quinn cries out the second that tongue licks at her in one firm broad stroke. She immediately clamps her hand over her mouth, praying that wasn't actually as loud as it sounded in her ears. Then Rachel clamps those lips around her clit and starts swirling her tongue around it like she's eating the best-tasting ice-cream of her life.

With one hand firmly laced in Rachel's hair and the other gripping the sheet, Quinn has to bite on her lips to keep from screaming out. She's never felt the need to be this vocal during sex, but something about Rachel and the way she's moaning into her is driving her crazy.

"F-fingers," Quinn manages between laboured breathes. "I need you, Rachel." Rachel's fingers, two of them, hesitate for a moment before entering her in one smooth stroke.

"Oh god!" Quinn jerks up at the feeling and Rachel's hand snakes up the mattress to gently pry Quinn's grip from the sheet, lacing their fingers together. It's an incredibly intimate position, and this is the first time since, well since her only serious relationship, where sex doesn't feel like just sex. There's this whirlwind of emotion building up inside of her and Quinn's suddenly terrified of what is about to happen when it explodes. It's like she's on this rollercoaster that she can't get off, hell she doesn't want to get off, but she's going higher and higher and the higher she goes, the scarier she knows the drop is going to be.

"Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," her name becomes a mantra, a prayer, a battle cry. And, as Rachel's fingers curve up to hit just the right spot, she adds a broken, "yes!" to that chant and then she's free-falling and the world becomes a Chagall painting and she's inside of it, with Rachel floating beside her and there's nothing but space and sensation and yeah, shooting stars.

"Rach," Quinn tugs at her hair gently. She's still shuddering with the after-effects of her orgasm. The fact that Rachel is still gently lapping at her isn't helping. "Rachel," Quinn tries again, and this time, Rachel lifts her head. Quinn feels her breath catch in her throat as she looks down at Rachel, whose cheeks and chin are shiny with…well, Quinn. "C'mere," she murmurs, pulling the brunette up by their joined hands. Rachel settles above Quinn and releases a tremulous breath.

"Was it-" she licks her lips and releases a hum of satisfaction. "Was I okay?" Quinn cups the back of her neck and pulls her down into a deep kiss, hoping it's enough of an answer. "You're everything," Quinn whispers against her cheek in reply, her mind still reeling in the abstract. She feels Rachel kiss the at the moisture in the corner of her eye and realises with great embarrassment that she's just become one of those women who cry after sex. She blames the magical space orgasm.

"You're everything too," Rachel says softly and turns her attention back to kissing away Quinn's tears.

…

Quinn wakes up the same way she does every other morning – or at least she thinks she does until she realises that the warm weight around her is not her duvet. She gingerly opens her eyes and finds that she can barely move with Rachel, a very naked Rachel, draped over her like a substitute blanket. The actual duvet lies at their feet, where they kicked it off sometime during the night. Now Rachel's leg lies over her waist and her head is buried against Quinn's shoulder. She's breathing deeply, and barely moves as Quinn attempts to free herself from the position they're in. The second Quinn manages to get off the bed, Rachel instinctively claims her warm spot and spreads herself over the entire mattress, taking up an enormous amount of space for such a small body. Quinn finds this rather amusing as she slips on a pair of sweats and a hoodie.

She's pretty much got the coffee-maker down, but she figures it'll be nice for Rachel to wake up to a real breakfast and not whatever they've got stashed in their cupboards, and the walk to that vegan deli isn't that long at all. She scribbles a quick note on paper and as quietly as possible, exits the room, stealing one last glance at the girl in her bed before she closes the door.

The apartment is still quiet and she assumes that some point Puck moved to his room – something she's eternally grateful for, since his room is much further from hers than the living room, which means less chance of...well of Puck having heard anything he wasn't supposed to.

The morning is surprisingly warm and there are more people out at 7am than she expected. She finds herself nodding in greeting at dog-walkers and kids on their way to school.

More than once she catches herself smiling broadly in the reflection of shop windows and feels utterly foolish, yet at the same time, utterly giddy. "Have you heard?" she wants to yell out into the sunny morning, "Last night I made love to Rachel Berry, and it was magical!"

She doesn't, of course. And she gets back to the apartment without much incident.

…

"Well, well, well. This is like…a reverse walk of shame."

"Of course Puck is standing in the kitchen right next to the coffee-maker. _Of course._ Of course he's got that goddamn smirk on his face that she wants to wipe off with her fist. The thing is though, instead of rolling her eyes, or making some snarky comment, Quinn finds herself grinning. She can't help it. She wants to play it cool and coy and ultimately tell Puck to fuck off, because it's none of his business, but she's got this parade in her head and there are balloon animals and floats and okay, why can't she stop grinning?

"Okay, okay," she shrugs a shoulder as she walks into the kitchen. "Get it over, with." She twirls her finger in the air motioning for Puck to speak, but instead, he surprises her, by taking two steps towards her and engulfing her in a huge hug. Quinn squeals out when he picks her off the ground and spins her.

"What was that for?" she asks, flustered and laughing when he finally lowers her to the ground.

"I figured you'd slug me if I tried to high-five you." He's smiling at her and Quinn can't help but laugh.

"Yeah, probably."

He wiggles his eyebrows at her as she reaches past him to turn the coffee-maker on. "So, one to ten?"

Quinn scowls at him. "I can't believe you just asked me that. I'm not doing this with you."

"Why not?" He sounds genuinely disappointed. "You told me before."

She moves to the fridge to retrieve the almond milk. "I knew I shouldn't played that stupid game with you guys that night. Bad things always happen around you and alcohol."

"C'mon Q," Puck whines like a little boy as he reaches for a stale box of Chocolate Puffs and plunges his hand in. "That Rory chick, she was like, an eight, right? And that librarian girl, the one from Seattle, uh Melanie-"

"Melissa," Quinn automatically corrects, then narrows her eyes, annoyed at herself for indulging him.

"Yeah, Melissa. She was what? A nine? At least tell me if Rachel beat that."

"I'm not saying a word."

"You weren't this quiet last night," Puck grumbles under his breath and Quinn shoots him a death stare.

"Heeey, little guy!" Puck says, suddenly looking over Quinn's shoulder. She turns around to find Max, standing in his footie pj's , holding Tony by the leg.

"Mornin' Puck, mornin' Quinn."

"Morning Max," they say in unison, then look at each other in slight amusement. For a moment it feels like a kids breakfast show.

"I had a dweam about piwates," he says, coming up next to Puck and attempting to climb up the stool.

"Yeah?" Quinn asks as Puck picks him up and makes sure he's sitting securely. "Was it a good dream?"

"Uh-huh. Gopher was there too. And daddy. Daddy said-"

"Hey Max," Quinn cuts him off as she reaches for two mugs of coffee. "How about you tell Puck your dream? He loves hearing about pirates! I need to go do something in my room."

Max looks dubitably at Quinn for a moment before nodding. "'Kay."

She kisses the top of his head before picking up the plate with the pastries and balancing it all with the skill of a waitress.

"You owe me," Puck says, grabbing a croissant-like thing off the plate and stuffing it into his mouth. "Big time."

Her eyes dart to Max for a second before looking back to Puck. "Twelve," she says softly before walking out of the kitchen with her breakfast.

"Twelve?" Puck calls after her. "You know the scale only goes to ten, right?"

…

She experiences a moment of panic when she enters her room only to find it empty. The bed is haphazardly made up, the pillows arranged in a way she doesn't usually put them. Who puts the little ones at the bottom? Quinn thinks absently. She's about to go back out to ask Puck when Rachel left, when she notices the bathroom door slightly ajar and the growing lump in her throat eases somewhat. Placing the tray on her writing desk, Quinn makes her way to the bathroom. The shower's going and she smiles when she hears Rachel's voice intermingles with the spray of water. She's torn between entering and just waiting outside for a hopefully naked Rachel to emerge, when she suddenly recognises the song Rachel's singing. She opens the door further and angles her head towards the shower. No, surely it can't be. And yet…

"Rach?" Quinn calls out and the singing stops immediately. "Rachel?"

"Quinn, I got your note," Rachel opens the shower door and sticks her head out. It's enough for Quinn to see half of her soapy body through the glass and she unconsciously licks her lips. "I'll be out in just a minute," she says softly, almost shyly and Quinn purses her lips together to hold back her amused smirk.

"Rachel, were you just singing Barry White?"

Rachel's eyes go wide and she stutters, "Uh no-no, I wasn't-"

"Yeah, you were," Quinn says, giggling with amusement now. "You totally were."

"Fine, I was." Rachel pulls back and scowls at her, which really has no effect considering she's naked and covered in pineapple-scented soap-suds. "If you must know, it's my feel-good song. And right now," she eyes Quinn purposefully, "I happen to feel good."

"Uh-huh," Quinn clears her throat and raises an eyebrow. "Well, there's coffee and pastries out there when you're done. Don't take too long."

Rachel flicks some wet hair out of her face. "I won't."

…

She's just finished plugging in the speaker for her ipod, when Rachel emerges, damp and towel-clad, her dark hair, even darker from the water. She looks like a nymph, a mermaid, a siren sent to seduce Quinn to her doom.

"I want to draw you," Quinn says suddenly and Rachel turns to her with a surprised expression before laughing nervously. "What, like one of your French girls, Jack?"

What? She frowns. "I don't understand."

"Quinn, please tell me you've seen _Titanic_?" Rachel says with a look that indicates Quinn's next answer may determine the fate of their relationship.

"Uh, sure. When it first came out," she replies cautiously and Rachel shakes her head.

"We are so having a movie night."

"I'm serious, Rachel," Quinn continues, taking a step towards her. God, the way the water clings to her eyelashes. "I have to sketch you." She's almost breathless with excitement.

Rachel looks at her warily. "I thought you got all of that out of your system?"

Her brow furrows as she struggles to understand. Then it hits her like a ton of bricks and she literally feels cold all over. "Rachel, that was," she looks at her with wide, apologetic eyes. "That was different. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Quinn." Rachel's hands cover hers and she tilts her face up to look fully into Quinn's eyes. "I was joking, okay? I didn't mean it. I just, I don't think I'd make a very good subject."

"Why not?"

"Well for one thing, you want me to be naked."

"Nude," Quinn corrects. "Yes. That would be nice."

"And you'd be staring at me."

"Well, I'd be drawing you."

Rachel sighs and unconsciously tugs the towel tighter around her chest. "I just don't know how comfortable I am with being looked at that…intensely."

"Rach," Quinn laughs with a hint of incredulity. "You're a Hollywood actress. You're constantly looked at 'intensely'."

"But that's not really me!" Rachel counters. "You'd be looking at me, all of me."

"Yes," Quinn gently puts her hands on Rachel's bare shoulders. "And all of you is gorgeous," she places a soft kiss on Rachel's neck. "Beautiful," her lips move up to kiss that space just below Rachel's ear. "Breath-taking." Quinn's fingers play with the loose knot of the towel and she finally captures Rachel's lips with hers.

Quinn's tugging lightly at the towel, when the sound of Rachel's voice breaks through the silence. Except, it's Rachel's voice coming from her purse. She pulls away from Quinn with a sheepish look and heads over to the chair where she threw her handbag the night before.

Quinn watches Rachel's eyes flicker over the screen before she hits answer and practically growls into the phone. "Kurt, I swear on Liz Taylor's grave, if this is about sequins or chiffon, I will kill you."

Quinn smirks and takes a step towards her.

"What are you talking about?" Rachel's voice raises and Quinn stops. "N-no, I've been busy." Quinn feels dread, thick and heavy settle in the pit of her stomach as Rachel's eyes connect with hers.

"Kurt, it can't be that bad, surely-" Rachel sighs and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, okay, I'll look at it. Yes, I know," her gaze shoots up to Quinn and she swallows. "Well, what did he tell you?"

Quinn looks away. This is heading into territory she wants no part of. She suddenly feels sick. A knock on the door has her almost jumping and she shoots Rachel a glance before going to open it. Puck's standing on the other side, with Max on his shoulders, all dressed and bundled up.

"Hey, we're going to see Van for a bit, that cool?"

Quinn's head is spinning; she barely hears what he's saying. "Uh, I guess. Just, um…take the baby Tylenol with you in case he feels feverish. He shouldn't though."

Puck frowns at her. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says and looks up at Max. "Hey, be good for Puck, alright sweetheart?"

"Okay, Quinn." He gives her a toothy smile and then they're off.

"Quinn?"

She turns around to see Rachel standing, looking positively dishevelled now. Her hair's curling wildly around her face, the towel's hanging loosely off her shoulder and in any other situation, Quinn would be planning the quickest way to get her back into bed. But now, now she can't get this feeling of nausea to go away.

"What's wrong? What did Kurt say?"

"A-apparently we were papped."

"Papped?" Quinn repeats. The word feels strange on her tongue.

"Outside of the diner. Somebody took our picture, or more accurately, my picture. Me," Rachel runs her hand over her face, "having a panic-attack and you calming me down."

"O-okay…" Quinn frowns. She's expecting more. There has to be more, right? Why does Rachel look like that over a couple of pictures?

"David saw it and he was concerned. Apparently, one tabloid said that I was having some sort of heart problem. Another said I was feeling faint because of my due 'eating disorder'."

"Fucking magazines," Quinn mutters savagely.

"Anyway, David, he called Kurt when he couldn't get hold of me because my phone was off and everybody was worried because I wasn't picking up and I just-I feel really shitty about everything."

"Including last night?" Quinn has to ask it. How can she not? Everything, everything suddenly feels like it's been tipped on its side.

Those eyes. Goddamnit, those eyes go wide and Rachel comes towards her in four quick steps.

"No," Rachel reaches up to cup her face and Quinn can't help but lean into her touch. "How can you even ask me that?"

Quinn sighs and leans forward until their foreheads are touching. "It's just; this is all very new and strange. There's so much we still have to figure out."

"We'll figure it out together," Rachel whispers and tilts her head up to press a soft kiss against Quinn's lips.

Quinn whines when Rachel steps back before she can deepen the kiss. "So," Rachel starts, toying with the top of her towel. "Are you drawing me or not?"

Quinn's eyes widen, "You mean-" the words die in her throat when the towel drops to the floor. "I'll get my pencils!"

…

"Rach, stop tapping your foot!"

"I can't help it; you're the one who decided on this playlist."

Quinn lets out a snicker. Through the speakers, Barry White is calling someone his first, last and everything.

"Okay, just keep your eyes on me, alright?"

"Can't you see it's you? You make me feel this way..." Rachel sings in reply, making Quinn grin before turning her attention back to her sketchpad.

"And stop fidgeting with your hair." She's positioned Rachel on her bed, propped up on one elbow, her hair splayed out over the mattress. Quinn wonders if she'll ever get a moment like this again. She's focused on the bump along Rachel's delicate wrist when a knock at the door jolts her from her thoughts. Quinn sighs in frustration. Puck is constantly forgetting to take his keys.

"Don't move," she tells Rachel, pointing a finger at her. "I'll be right back."

"But Quinn, my arm's getting tingly!" Rachel calls out after her and she shakes her head with a smile as she walks to the door. She wonders if she can convince Puck to go get ice-cream. Probably not, considering all he's done so far. She really is grateful. She doesn't tell him often enough, but she is.

Quinn undoes the latch and opens the door without thinking about it and nearly jumps in surprise when the person on the other side is _not _Noah Puckerman. For one thing, he's got hair, lots of thick shiny blonde hair. He's also really tall and really, really good-looking. Like movie star good looki-

_Crap. _

"Hi," he says, flashing those movie star white teeth at her in a movie star smile. "I was told I could find Rachel Berry here?"

Quinn swallows the scream building up in her throat. "Who-who are you?" She knows. Of course she knows. But she's always been something of a masochist and she wants him to say it, she wants to hear it out loud.

"I'm sorry," he says a little sheepishly and extends his hand. A shiny movie star Tag Heuer watch glints off his wrist. "I'm David Pierce. Rachel's fiancé."

…


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** There's no excuse for why this chapter took so long to update except for the fact I no longer found any"Glee" in Faberry (pun intended). I think I was disheartened by the direction of the show even though I knew it was always destined to suck balls. Anyway, to hell with canon...if you're still interested in reading this story, then I'm still interested in writing it.

This chapter's dedicated to Tree-baby, who wouldn't let me rest until I finished this thing. Thanks.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

"What?" Quinn lowers her pencil for a second and regards Rachel with a raised brow. "You're thinking so loudly, I can't hear the music."

Rachel purses her lips to keep from smiling. "It's nothing, I was just-"

"Yes?" That brow raises a fraction higher.

"I was recalling last night. More specifically, about that thing you showed me last night." She pauses and licks her lips, "You know, with your tongue." She's not actually referring to anything specific. The truth is, Quinn showed her a great many things with her tongue, but she takes great pleasure in the blooming blush that spreads over Quinn's cheekbones.

The blonde lets out a shaky breath and allows her gaze to travel up Rachel's naked form until she meets her eyes. "If you're trying to get out of me drawing you, it's not going to work," Quinn says finally, but she shifts in her seat and Rachel smirks.

"It's just that you're-" she slowly raises her hand and trails it along her breastbone. "So far away."

"Rachel," Quinn manages, nay warns, through gritted teeth.

"Hmmm?" The brunette looks at her with an innocent glance.

"Shut up and let me draw you." Quinn's eyes narrow slightly and her tongue pokes out at the side of her mouth. "Yeah, keep your hand like that, right there."

Rachel sighs in exasperation but does as Quinn requests. She's not really that opposed to being drawn, in fact, once she got naked and 'positioned', she found a certain…satisfaction in having Quinn's gaze so focused on her. The only problem is that the longer Quinn sits there, with her devastatingly cute 'serious artist' face on, the more desperate Rachel's desire to kiss that face becomes.

Amy Winehouse's distinctive croon is replaced by Marvin Gaye suggesting they "Get It On" and a smile tugs at Rachel's lips as she watches Quinn unconsciously mouth the words to the song as those amber-flecked eyes flicker between the bed and the sketchpad on her lap. It's in this moment, a moment as unremarkable as the one before it, that Rachel realizes that she loves Quinn. Not just that she's in love with Quinn (which is something she's realised a million or so times since Quinn first kissed her), but that she loves her, in that profound, unselfish way humans beings are rarely capable of acknowledging. She loves her passion and her drive, her love of art and those calorie laden chocolate-fudge sundaes that Puck makes. She loves the fact that Quinn reads poetry for leisure and has a hidden talent for finding all of Rachel's ticklish spots, despite being frustratingly _un_ticklish herself. She loves the tiny mole on Quinn's hip which she found herself kissing over and over again, she loves the way Quinn threads her fingers through her hair when she's frustrated or confused or just tired. She loves the sound of her uninhibited laughter and the little sigh she makes just after she comes. She loves all those minute and understated puzzle pieces that make up Lucy Quinn Fabray. And for a moment, Rachel feels weightless and hopeful and just incredibly lucky. As if sensing the subtle shift in Rachel's mood, Quinn regards her with a bemused expression. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking," Rachel lets out a breath and finds she's unable to fully articulate the depth of her emotions. "That," she says finally, "I'm just really glad we ran into each other that day."

Quinn's expression softens and she nods, almost imperceptibly. "I am too," she says in a low voice, keeping her eyes on Rachel and the brunette thinks that maybe, she did get her point across after all.

After a few more minutes of Quinn sketching and Rachel musing, Quinn lets out an exasperated breath. "Rach, stop tapping your foot!"

"I can't help it - you're the one who decided on this playlist." Through the speakers, Barry White is calling someone his first, last and everything.

Quinn's lips twitch and she clears her throat. "Okay, just keep your eyes on me, alright?" Rachel watches that tiny frown line reappear between her brows as she focuses on the drawing. There is something utterly compelling about watching Quinn Fabray in her element.

"Can't you see it's you?" She sings softly as Quinn tries hard to keep a straight face and stay focused. "You make me feel this way..."

"Stop fidgeting with your hair," the blonde finally says, fighting a grin. Rachel huffs and makes an effort to remain motionless. Two minutes later, the knock on the door startles both of them. Quinn shoots her a glance and mouths, "Don't move," before getting up to open the door for Puck.

…

He walks past a series of doors that all look the same in a dank hallway that smells of soup and someone's cat. He suspects Rachel finds it charming, like something out of 'Friends'. He just wants to get out of there as soon as possible. He's a west coast boy, born and bred, something he's not ashamed of. Of course the last few years he's made his home in New York, with her. And honestly, they've been the best years of his life, both personally and professionally. He intends to tell her this, to show her this. She's always been about the big speeches and grand gestures and dammit if he isn't going to deliver.

He finally finds the door he's looking for, the address Kurt had reluctantly given him. Apparently she was staying with two high school friends. He found this slightly odd. Rachel hates cohabitation. Her space is sacred. It had taken him months of persuasion to allow him to move in with her. But, he can't lie and say he doesn't take comfort in the fact that she's lodging away from Todd Abernathy and his hipster charm. He's heard enough of the rumours to know that Abernathy's existential artist routine is a hell of a panty dropper (Kurt's words, not his). He assumes that Rachel needed girl time after their 'break-up' and they're probably braiding each other's' hair and talking about shoes or whatever women do during these secret mourning rituals. Not for the first time, he wonders if he should have called first. But calling would spoil the surprise and surprise is the key to big romantic gestures – Rachel taught him that.

He knocks and waits and knocks and waits and finally hears muffled cursing, some shuffling and death threats directed at something called a puck, before the door is yanked open by a beautiful vagabond of a woman who should be playing the lead role in a Godard film rather than standing there scowling at him as if he was sent to bring the plague. Yet scowl at him she does - a reaction he's not very familiar considering…well considering his reputation.

"Hi." He opts for the toothpaste ad smile, hoping it'll soften her a little. "I was told I could find Rachel Berry here?"

Her pixie-pale face suddenly goes paler and for a moment he's worried she's going to pass out. Did he say something wrong? Is Rach even here?

"Who-who are you?"

Well, that's a surprise. Maybe she's one of those hippie types who don't own a TV. He feels a little foolish now and extends his hand, that glittering smile turning sheepish. "I'm David Pierce. Rachel's fiancé."

Her face transforms from bemused to threatening in a second. Those warm honey-gold eyes turn hard and narrow into slits and for a moment he's honestly terrified. "She said you broke up."

"Well, we did, but-" he pauses in mid-sentence, suddenly realising that he has no desire to discuss his personal life with a complete stranger, even one as beautiful and, well homicidal looking as the woman in front of him. "It's a long story, really. Is she here? Can I see her?"

The blonde looks reluctant and David thinks he understands. He's watched Rachel watch enough reruns of _Sex and the City_ to understand that this was a sort of female safe space thing that he was walking into. Rachel probably cried on her friend's shoulder post-break up and now she's feeling all protective. Honestly, he gets it. But right now, he wants to see his lady and there's not much anyone can do about it.

The blonde bites down on her bottom lip in a way he finds rather distracting and then mutters a soft, "Okay," before stepping aside and letting him enter the apartment.

Based on the soup-scented hallway, he expected a dingy little place, the kind of thing he grew up in, but the apartment is awash with colour and textures. Slightly overwhelming at first, he finds his gaze flickering around the room, finally landing on a photograph of the blonde with a young man and a little girl.

Recognition hits him and he whirls around to face her. "You're Quinn," he says in something like awe. "Beth's…" David trails off. How to put this delicately? "You're Quinn."

An arched brow. Those irises now a cool green. "Yes. I'm Beth's biological mother."

He nods. "Rach and I saw Shelby last year at New Years. The kid wouldn't stop talking about you." He watches those features transform once again as a small smile, pure and unadulterated takes hold of her face. She suddenly looks younger, like a teenager. David wonders if she's ever considered acting. Those Hollywood agents would lap her up.

That smile is soon replaced with a distant sort of look. As if everything about him and this whole situation was utterly uninteresting. "I'll get Rachel," she says softly. "She was…taking a nap when last I che-"

"Quinn! The playlist has moved on to some peculiar Tibetan chanting, which I'm certain is an apropos backtrack for your creative dabbling, is also a bit of a mood-killer."

Her voice startles him. Or rather, her tone startles him. It's a specific light; teasing tone that usually implies morning Pilates has been postponed in favour of morning sex. Thus, it's a tone he's learnt to listen for. It's strange, hearing her voice, like that, in this foreign place, in a place where he is not expected to be.

"Guess she woke up," Quinn says, not meeting his eyes, before stalking off towards the bedroom.

He doesn't follow.

…

She wants to hate him. She wants to shove him out of the door and tell him that he has no business in her home, in her life. But she knows that she let him in. The minute she got tangled up in this…whatever this was, she let him in.

So she physically allows him to step inside her space and swallows back a scream when he mentions Beth. She wants to yell at him. Who does he think he is, talking about her daughter like he's a part of this family? And suddenly, she's angry with Rachel for making him part of the family.

He looks slightly lost when Rachel's voice filter's through the apartment. It's like sunshine, warming the cool counter tops, flitting through the curtains, lighting up the air. In any other situation, that voice would have tugged at the corners of Quinn's mouth and seduced her to smile, seduced her heart to race, her pulse to quicken. Now, she just cringes and delivers a lame excuse to the man standing in her living room.

"David's here." Her voice sounds hollow, even in her ears. She can hear the accusation, the tinge of anger. She knows how this is going to go down. She knows herself.

Rachel sits up, naked and vulnerable. Her face contorted in confusion. She looks small. She looks like a child. "What?"

"He's here," Quinn gestures towards the living room. "He wants to speak to you."

She feels it happening, the slow tilt of her world. Rachel's face drops, her mouth moves into a soundless apology. It's not her fault, of course it's not her fault that he's here, but that doesn't change the taste of blame on her tongue or the look of guilt in Rachel's eyes. And Quinn hates, she hates that she's reduced to feeling like a teenager caught out doing something bad. Nothing about the previous night was bad, nothing about it was wrong, and yet here she is, skulking about in her bedroom while she watches Rachel frantically scramble to cover up her naked body. She thought she left the whole shame and guilt thing in the past. Apparently not.

She's angry at Rachel, at David, at herself for being angry, for feeling so goddamned much, for giving so much of herself away.

Rachel turns to her, hopping slightly as she wiggles into her jeans. "Does he-did you say anything?"

"What? Like, please come in, oh and by the way I fucked your girlfriend last night."

Rachel gets that specific disapproving face and says, "Quinn," in that specific disapproving tone and Quinn wants to get on her knees, throw herself at Rachel's ankles and beg her not to go into the living room. But she can't. So, she rolls her eyes and gestures towards the door.

"He's waiting."

…

The image of David in Quinn's colourful living room is jarring. Like seeing ones parents at school – a clash of worlds that should never happen.

He turns when he hears her approach and those crystal blue eyes, so familiar, meet hers with such aching vulnerability that she feels her breath catch. Love, Rachel realises is a nebulous thing, tricky and delicate. And as he takes her in his arms, love wraps itself around her, all warm and slimy tentacles and she sighs against that broad chest and for a second, just a second, there is peace, because this is familiar and real and uncomplicated and everything she's known for the past two years. And it's all wrong, because suddenly everything she's known for the past two years becomes everything she doesn't want anymore. Rachel eases out of David's arms and braces her hands against his chest.

He smells of lemon soap and the aftershave she bought him last Christmas.

"I was so worried about you," he says, those eyes raking over her face with intensity.

"Worried?" Her voice sounds strange in her ears. "W-why?"

"After what Kurt told me," he runs his hand over his chin, palm grazing designer stubble, "After your phone call...Rach," David ducks his head slightly so that those baby-blues are staring straight into her soul. "What's going on with you?"

"We talked-"

"No you talked," his mouth pulls into a small smile, "Which isn't unusual, but this time, I need you to listen."

She looks up at him, at that face that holds such conviction, such fierce determination and at the same time, so much vulnerability. Almost two years. Two years of dates and kisses. Two years of red carpets and making-love. The least she can give him is a few minutes.

"Okay," she says softly, her eyes flickering to the bedroom.

"Okay," he says, looking relived. "So, can we go get coffee or something? I'm pretty sure your friend hates me." He smiles wryly. "She looked kind of startled when I showed up."

Her throat clogs up. "I'd rather just..."get this over with "Let's just sit down, okay?" Part of her wants to escape, wants to take David away from this place, a place that's become something of a safe-haven for her. His presence is corrupting it, she knows it, she knows Quinn knows it. But the thought of leaving with him is unbearable. She can't face Quinn and tell her that she's going away with David to talk. She knows Quinn, she knows what it'll mean to Quinn. "I'm choosing him," her actions would say. "I'm leaving you alone," they would say. So, she moves to the couch, the same couch where she once fell asleep, tangled up with Quinn.

David doesn't sit. He stands in front of her, his expression both nervous and hopeful. He really is devastatingly handsome, she thinks absently as his eyes lock on hers. "I've decided not to take the job," he says softly and a wave of nausea sweeps over her.

"W-why?" Buts she knows why. "David you wanted that part. It was practically written for you." Her voice rises and she has to force the bubbling panic back down her throat. "Why would you leave that?"

He looks at her as if it were obvious. "Because it's what you wanted. Because you were right, we were moving towards separate paths." He takes a step forward and kneels in front of her so that they're eye-level. "The hours, the distance...it would have been impossible. And I understand what you were doing." He reaches out to run a finger down her cheek. "You were letting me go so that I could pursue this, this path."

Guilt runs hot through her veins.

"But baby, you need to know, that if it comes down to a choice between my career and my relationship with you-" he sighs and takes her trembling hands in his. "I choose you, Rachel. I will always choose you."

She's going to be sick. She doesn't know what to say, how to react. He looks at her with open, trusting eyes, reflecting so much love, so much trust and suddenly she's hit the image of Quinn, rocking against her, above her, their bodies slick with sweat, the air hot and smelling of sex. "You're everything," Quinn had said, her voice hoarse from screaming Rachel's name. "You're everything."

"David -" with some effort, she pulls her shaky hands from his grasp. "I can't -" she releases a unsteady breath. I can't…what, she wonders. _Do this? Go back with you? Keep lying? _She wants to say all of those things, but her tongue feels thick and heavy.

She glances around for a second, her gaze focused on that closed bedroom door. Can Quinn hear her? Can she sense her hesitation?

David frowns as she pulls back. He's not stupid, he can see the struggle in her eyes. "Rach?" His voice is soft, searching.

"When I said that we were going on paths, David, I wasn't just referring to our careers."

"What else could you have mea-" She swallows as she sees the realisation creep into his expression.

"Rach-" he looks at her pleadingly, almost begging her to dispel his suspicions. Begging her to tell him he's got it all wrong. But she can't. She can't lie anymore.

"David, I can't," she manages to keep her voice from cracking. "I can't go back with you. I can't keep this up. Because," heart hammering, tears forming, "because of Quinn."

His face crumples in confusion. "Quinn? Your friend inside?"

She bites on her top lip and nods once. "Rachel, what the hell does she have to do with anything?"

Those tears building up behind her eyes finally fall and she wipes at them furiously. "She's…I-"

And then it happens. Incomprehension gives way to horror and he stands suddenly, as if being near her burns and bruises. "No." He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair in a move that suddenly reminds her of Quinn. Their features are uncannily similar she suddenly realises and is filled with a fresh bout of nausea.

"You-" he looks down at her with utter bewilderment. "You're not gay."

"I've always believed that sexuality is fluid, David. You know that," she says softly. She swallows the sob building up in her throat and forces herself to keep eye-contact. "Besides, this isn't about…It's about _her_," she whispers. It's always been about her, she thinks and David looks like he's been punched in the gut.

When he looks at her now his eyes are filled with a mixture of pain and something like disgust. "Did you plan it? Did you know before you came to Boston that this would happen? Is that why you chose the role…to be closer to _her_?"

Rachel feels like she's been slapped. The accusations are scalding. "What? No, god, how you even ask me that." She takes a step towards him, "You know I would never-"

"I don't know you at all," he replies, his eyes cold now. "You know I flew up here cause I was worried you. I actually," he barks out a humourless chuckle and shakes his head, "I actually thought you were broken up over what happened between us."

"I _was,"_ she insists. "I am."

"Yeah, and I bet she was dying to comfort you. How long after we broke it off before you fucked her? God," he makes something of a choking sound, "Did you even wait until we were over? Did what we had mean _anything_ to you?"

Rachel says nothing. She can't. She wants to feel indignation, she wants to protest and fight for her reputation, but all she feels is the twisted barbs of guilt. Not guilt over guilt over loving Quinn, but guilt over hurting David. So much hurt. The silence between them grows thick and spongy. He can't look at her, but it seems he cannot walk away. She waits, sitting on that couch, praying for it to engulf her, watching as he paces, his brain whirring, his broken heart barely beating. There are no more words. In the distance, the sound of Quinn's phone plays a pretty melody that seems to mock the tense scene.

It can't be more than a few seconds before the bedroom door is flung open and Quinn is racing out, her eyes wild, barely sparing a glance at the emotionally wrecked couple in the living room.

"Quinn, what's-" Rachel's heart plummets as Quinn turns to her for a second. She's never, never seen this particular expression on the blonde's face – raw and uninhibited terror.

"It's Max," Quinn reaches for her car keys and heads for the door. "And no," she says before Rachel has a chance to intercept, "There's nothing you can do, so don't bother."

And then she's gone. Leaving her and David alone with their demons.

…

She's way over the speed limit and has already run two lights. She doesn't care at this point. If the cops stop her, all the better – they can follow her to her destination. The more the merrier, right? She feels sick, like she's going to vomit and pass out at the same time. She can't do either, not if she's going to fix this, not if she's going to find him.

Her little Prius brakes outside of Vanessa's with a screech and Quinn's out before the tires have stopped smoking. Van's on the porch, half hysterical, with Puck looking no better. His eyes find Quinn's and he meets her halfway down the driveway and pulls her into a hug she suspects is more for his own comfort than hers. Either way, she returns it before pushing away from his solid form.

"Did you call the police?"

"Yeah." His voice is hoarse, like he's been yelling, or crying or both. "Just after I called you. I told 'em what you said. They should here any minute."

As if on cue, sirens are heard in the distance. They both turn their heads to see two squad cars pull up.

Quinn takes a shaky breath and begins to walk towards them before she feels Puck's fingers close around her shoulder. She turns back and finds those dark eyes staring at her with a quiet determination. "We'll find him," he says softly. "We have to."

"I know," she replies, her voice wavering ever so slightly. As she turns and walks towards the police officers, Quinn wishes she believed it.

...


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: [insert meaningless platitudes and apologies for lateness of chapter. Also gratuitous and disgusting amounts of love for any still following this story]**

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 17<span>**

David is the first to break the silence that follows Quinn's departure. It hangs heavy around them, and they cannot speak, cannot breathe without fear of hurt and pain. His attempt at sound is innocuous. A simple question, born of curiosity, not malice.

"Who is Max?"

Rachel's head jerks up. The name, coming from David's lips, is odd, she thinks. "He's…he's her nephew." She cannot say her name. It the space of a few minutes it's become something toxic between them. The greatest taboo. "He's four." Her voice trembles a little and she wills herself to keep control.

"Is he alright?" David's concern is genuine. He saw the fear in Quinn's eyes just as clearly as she did and Rachel shrugs weakly.

"I don't know." She's tired suddenly. So tired. "You were here. You got the same information as I did."

David drags his hand across his face, a gesture that suggests he's just a weary as she is. This emotional battle has ruined them both. "So what now?" he asks, his voice teetering on the edge of despair. "What happens to us?"

_Us. _

_Rachel and David. David and Rachel. _For the longest time this is who defined herself as. An _Us_, a _We_, a dual-entity.

"I watched _Star Wars_," she says, her mouth unconsciously pulling into a thin smile.

David's brow furrows but he plays along, well used to Rachel's non sequiteurs. "I've been trying to get you to watch it for years and you said it was, if I remember correctly, "a silly little space movie made for nerds who still live in their parents' basements'." He almost shudders at having to vocalise the sacrilege.

"Well," Rachel shrugs, "I was wrong. I found the…" her smile widens as she thinks about it, "poetry in it."

David snorts. "You found the poetry in Star Wars?"

"I did," Rachel insists somewhat indignantly. "My point being," she continues, willing herself to keep her voice level. I couldn't enjoy it with you, David. No matter how much you pushed and persuaded. I had to find it on my own and, and when I did," she takes a breath but looks him in the eye, making sure he knows that she has no shame, no regrets in what she's about to say, "Quinn was here for me, and we watched it together and it felt right."

David narrows his eyes," Is this some kind of metaphor for gay sex?"

"What?! No! God, David!" She takes a breath and tries again. "I'm trying to say that me breaking up for you isn't about me leaving you for Quinn. It's about me needing to break up with you. The fact that Quinn's here for me, well that's between Quinn and me."

David looks like he's about to say something but then looks away and that silence, the same silence from before works its way between them, all sly and sneaky, filling the air with unsaid accusations and confessions before David finally says, "So that's it then? That's all you have to say?"

Rachel's eyes unexpectedly fill with tears and she nods. "I'm sorry."

"Okay then."

And that's it.

She doesn't cry. Not for lack of trying. Rachel feels she should cry. She feels that the moment should be marked by tears, by some dramatic breakdown, perhaps a mournful wail. But she finds herself empty, numb. It's been over for a long time. Her tear ducts seem to know this and rebel against her will to cry. And so she stands there, dry-eyed in the middle of Quinn's living room, staring at an open door.

David's barely been gone for two minutes when her phone rings.

Her phone is in Quinn's bedroom, on Quinn's desk, where everything smells of Quinn. She reaches for her phone and her eyes fall on the half-rendered sketch. For a moment, she's tempted to just let it ring, her eyes transfixed by the woman in the portrait. All long lines and subtly shaded curves. There's something more than erotic about the drawing…Quinn has captured the intimacy of the situation, the almost fragile tenderness in her face. She could analyse it for hours, but the demanding ring of her phone breaks through the silence, and she answers it with a sharp, "Hello?"

Puck's voice is urgent, almost breathless. "Rach? Thank god you answered."

"Noah, what's wrong? Is Quinn with you? Is Max okay? Is there-"

"They have him," Puck's voice cuts through her incessant questioning and Rachel feels herself shudder.

"Who?" she asks, her voice small now. "Who has him? Noah, what's going on?"

"They think it's his dad." His voice goes hushed, as if someone had just entered the room. "Look, can you get over to Van's place? I'll text you the directions."

Rachel swallows down a lump in her throat. "Is Quinn there? I'm not sure-"

"She's scaring me, Rachel." Puck's voice drops even lower. "You're the only one who-" he sighs and sounds so utterly hopeless, that Rachel's heart breaks a little. "Can you just get over here?"

She finds herself nodding furiously, despite being alone. "I'll be right there."

…

She's _fine_. She's together and calm and absolutely fine. They look at her like she's about to break, like she's about to shatter and litter the floor with a million pieces that they're supposed to sweep up. She wants to tell them that if anything is going to break her, it's their unwelcome, unsolicited looks of pity and remorse. She doesn't want pity – she wants space. Space to think and act and help the cops anyway she can. Their pity is suffocating and makes her retreat even further.

Rachel's in there now. She's in the living room talking to Vanessa in low tones and hushed noises. It's the kind of strained inside voices her mother and father used when she was seven and they had just received a call from her Nana's nursing home. Quinn hears sniffling – Vanessa's, not Rachel's and she feels the overwhelming urge to tell her to shut up, to tell her that her tears aren't worth a fucking thing. But she doesn't say anything. She just stands in the kitchen, staring aimlessly out of the little window about the sink as she hears Rachel murmur insipid, useless words of comfort.

The pudgy faced, grey-haired detective, who had arrived just as she did, promised to call her should anything new come to light. He hasn't called yet. Francine arrived an hour ago. She's at the station. Quinn asked to come too. They thought it best if she stayed. They said she'd be more useful at the "scene". They meant she'd just be in the way anywhere else. They're calling it "parental abduction". She thinks it's an insidious term for kidnapping.

It takes Rachel a full twenty-three minutes to gather up the courage to approach her. She knows that Puck called Rachel. She heard his plaintive phone call. She doesn't really care one way or the other. There's nothing Rachel can do besides _hover_. And hover she does. Considering the things they had been doing mere hours ago, Quinn finds her tentative approach almost amusing – almost.

"Quinn?" Just the sound of her name, that single syllable wraps around Rachel's tongue and she fights the urge to turn around.

It's raining. It's been raining for almost an hour now. The sky is thick and grey and threatening, yet the world outside of that kitchen window seems so uncomplicated compared to the storm she anticipates to be brewing behind those expressive brown eyes of Rachel's.

"Quinn, are you-" she inches nearer. "Is there anything I can get for you? Or, uh…do?" She sounds so utterly helpless that Quinn finds herself turning from that window against her instincts.

"I'm fine," she says tonelessly. "Really, I'm great." She knows the forced smile is a bit much, but she's panicking and the sooner Rachel stops her…hovering, the better.

"Quinn," Rachel says again, almost pleading. For what, Quinn can't define.

"Look, Rachel, unless you're going to use that nose of yours like a bloodhound and go sniffing after Max, there's really nothing for you to do here. You should go home." She regrets in the minute she says it. The hurt in Rachel's expression is immediate. She wishes she could say that she's called Rachel beautiful enough times to cancel out the insult, but she can't. She wishes she could say the number of times she's told Rachel how much she needs her were enough to nullify the rejection, but it's not. Not when Rachel's staring up at her with those big brown eyes, offering everything Quinn refuses to accept.

"I-I should go," Rachel almost whispers, her eyes still on Quinn's. Her expression still that of a wounded animal. Quinn thinks of Bambi, looking back, calling after his mother. Then she thinks of Max, who refused to leave her side for two days after they had watched it. There's a bubbling of something in her chest, something that threatens to erupt and destroy this precious calm she's adopted. She can't let that happen, not now, not when she might still be needed, not when Rachel's looking at her like _that_.

"Yeah, you should," Quinn replies, counting the seconds that she can turn back to that undemanding vista. She watches as Rachel's shoulders sag, as her head lowers, as she prepares to back away and Quinn almost sighs in relief. But then that diminutive frame pauses and turns back to the blonde, her body almost vibrating with the effort of defiance.

"No," she says, softly but firmly.

"Excuse me?" At this point, Quinn's brow rises entirely of its own volition.

"I'm not going anywhere." This time, Rachel doesn't meet her eyes, but her intent is clear and Quinn easily recognises that stubborn, almost petulant tone.

"Rachel-" it's meant to sound threatening, but it there's a definite pleading quality to her voice.

"I mean it." Rachel does look up now and upon glimpsing the raw emotion on Quinn's face, immediately softens her voice. "I care about him too, Quinn."

Quinn fights the desire to look away, but she's caught in that invisible tether that seems to run between them.

"I want to be here," Rachel continues and Quinn can only nod, aware of that bubbling sensation, sneaking its way through her chest and up her throat. Rachel takes a step closer but almost jumps with fright when the front door bursts open, letting the harsh autumn wind into the little duplex.

"Quinn!" Puck calls loudly. "Quinnie!" The just-arrived Francine calls brokenly. "Quinn," Rachel whispers, and Quinn looks down at her. "It's going to be okay." And for the first time since this whole thing began, Quinn thinks maybe it is.

Frannie looks as if she's aged a decade. Quinn can count the number of times she's seen her sister without make-up, and still, none of them compare to this tired, haggard version of the woman standing before her. Within seconds, she's holding on to Quinn, her tall, bony frame clinging to the younger woman as if to keep from drowning. And now all Quinn can do is utter those insipid, useless words of comfort that were previously sprouting from Rachel's lips.

"It's going to be okay," she murmurs, her hand unconsciously rubbing circles across Frannie's back. What is it about that circular motion, she thinks absently, that breeds comfort?

"It'll be fine, you'll see," she whispers, choking down the bubble of emotion that seems intent on clawing its way out of her mouth. "We have to be strong now. We're Fabrays remember."

Frannie finally pulls back, her eyes glazed over, her face swollen from crying. It's a phrase their father used to use. The strong Fabrays. In the end, Quinn thinks it was easy to be strong when your veins are overflowing with liquid courage. But it seems to have the desired effect on Fran, and she sniffs once before nodding resolutely.

"Francine?" The older Fabray looks down to see Rachel hesitantly holding out a mug. "My name is Rachel Berry. I thought you might like some chamomile tea. It's supposedly good for-"

"Are you the actress?" Frannie asks in a disoriented tone. "What are you doing here?" Another absurdity upon the drama.

"I'm friends with Quinn," Rachel answers, handing the mug over to Frannie who takes it gratefully. Quinn watches the interaction, a heavy feeling settling between her lungs.

"What have they said?" she asks, bringing her sister's attention back to her.

"They think that Robert will try and leave the state," Frannie whispers, sipping on her tea. "If he does…" she her voice breaks before she clears her throat and continues. "With his IRS trouble and everything else they've charged him with, he's panicking. I know what Robert's like when he's panicking and now he's out there, with my son. Wanting to keep _my_ son. I never should have left. I never should have-"

"They'll find him," Rachel pipes up and Frannie looks at her gratefully, as if her words actually mean something. Quinn wishes that Rachel would just leave. Her presence makes Quinn feel unhinged, unstable, unable to maintain that fragile composure she's so desperately been holding on to. It's difficult to be the person she needs to be in this situation with Rachel right _there, _offering stupid things like comfort and hugs and why is she even here anyway? She's supposed to be having coffee with her perfect movie star boyfriend with his perfect movie star teeth and yeah she said she was over him, but hello, who honestly gets over someone with a smile that can be seen from that satellite they put on Mars and Quinn hates, _hates_ that her thoughts return to this one subject when she needs to stay focused and _fine_ so that she can hold on to her sister as Frannie falls apart.

There's an hour of waiting, of watching the time and Quinn wonders how long they can go on like this. She's absently trying to remember if she made up her bed before she left, knowing that Frannie would expect her to take the couch. Neither of them could sleep in Max's room. Somehow she knows that. The storm had broken and everything is grey, dark. Vanessa suggested take out, but no-one's hungry. Even Puck - he of the ever growling stomach - declined. Quinn knows he blames himself for not being there, for not saving Max from his father and Vanessa from her inevitable guilt. She wants to tell Puck it's not his fault, that he's not the one who failed, that all the blame should be put on her. She's the one who couldn't protect him. She's the one who lost another child. She wants to say all these things, but she doesn't, because right now, she needs to keep it together.

It's Frannie's phone that eventually rings, but Quinn takes the call. Her sister can barely stand without breaking down all over again. So Quinn listens to dear old Detective pudgy-face say that they found Robert attempting to cross into Vermont. She hears him say that _the boy_ is fine, if confused. She hears him say that Fran needs to come to the station right away. There's some other stuff she doesn't hear, because she's too busy mouthing, "They have him, he's safe!" And then Frannie's crying and Rachel's crying and Vanessa's crying and Puck's walked into the kitchen and Quinn's pretty sure he's crying too.

Quinn feels Frannie's arms around her, tight and reassuring and she gently pulls out of the hug. "I'll go get his things," she practically whispers.

Frannie gently pushes Quinn's messy hair out of her face, a gesture that reminds Quinn so much of their mother. "What do you mean? You're coming with me to the station aren't you?"

"Let Puck take you," Quinn replies evenly. "I should go pack up his stuff."

"Quinnie!" Fran sounds confused. "There'll be time for that. I want you with me."

"It's better if he sees you first," Quinn tries for a smile and fails, acutely aware of Rachel's eyes on her now. "I'll see you back at the apartment."

And then she's heading out of the door, not daring to look back, despite Frannie's confusion and Puck yelling her name. She needs to get out so she can breathe.

The apartment is dark. And quiet. She doesn't know what she expected, but this enveloping silence was not it. She's become accustomed to Puck's ear splitting music or Max's Disney mix blasting out of their speakers. She's become accustomed to laughter and screeches, tantrums and teasing. It seems everything she's become accustomed to is slowly evaporating. She should get Max's things together. Francine would want his room to be neat, not like it looks now. She should fold up the clothing lying on his floor. She should rinse out his sippy-cup and refill it. He'll probably be thirsty when he gets home. Except this is not his home. It never really was.

Quinn enters his room slowly, taking in the surroundings. It feels like days since she's last been in here rather than just hours. Did she really see him just that morning? He'll want Tony, Quinn thinks, spotting the smiling green dinosaur on his bed. He must have been scared without Tony, she thinks as she reaches out for the stuffed animal.

This is how Rachel finds her – curled up on Max's bed, clutching a stuffed T-Rex as if it were only thing saving her from sinking.

"Quinn?" Rachel's voice reaches her as if from very far away.

"Go away," she manages and shuts her eyes as if not seeing Rachel will eliminate her presence completely.

"Quinn, talk to me."

It seems it's not that easy.

"Please, Rachel." Maybe sounding as pathetic as she feels will do the trick. "Please just leave me alone."

"No," Rachel says and Quinn opens her eyes, recognizing that tone. "Not until you tell me why you didn't drive Francine to the station. Not until you tell me why -"

"Because I didn't deserve to see him," Quinn all but breathes.

"What?" She sounds genuinely confused and Quinn sits up, still holding Tony to her chest.

"Max," she says, hating that she's actually having this conversation, wishing Rachel would just magically disappear. Or maybe it would be better if _she_ magically disappeared. "I didn't deserve to see him."

"Quinn, that's…ridiculous." She sounds almost exasperated and steps further into the room until she's looking down at Quinn.

"Is it?" God, that feeling, that wild, uncontrollable feeling is once again clawing its way out and Quinn fears that she can't keep it inside for much longer. She turns and faces Rachel fully, her eyes filled with unspoken guilt. "It's my fault he was taken," she whispers. "I should have taken better care of him. I should have made sure he was supervised by someone who knew what was going on."

Rachel frowns, "That's impossible -"

"No!" she all but yells. "He was in _my_ care. He was _my_ responsibility, Rachel. And I…I just let him go. I just…" she swallows down a sob. "I let him go."

"Oh Quinn." Rachel looks as if she's about to cry and Quinn can't allow herself to see that. Not on top of everything else. She can't deal with Rachel's tears. With Rachel's pity.

"No," she holds her arm out as if to defend herself when Rachel attempts to step even closer. "No," she repeats. "Do you know how he found Max?" she asks, her voice bordering on hysterical. "It's all my fault. I didn't even…it never occurred to me." She sits up on her knees now, eye to eye with Rachel. "He saw the pictures, Rachel."

It takes her a while, but she watches as recognition finally dawns on Rachel's face. "But…they were of me, of us," she stammers.

"There were two with Max in the background. With _me_ holding Max in the background for the whole goddamn world to see. Robert knows what I look like, where I live. Frannie warned me, she told me that he would try and take Max and I didn't do anything to secure his safety. It was only a matter of time before he put it together."

"Oh god," to her credit, Rachel looks like she's about to be sick. "Oh god, Quinn, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," she replies sharply. "Don't you see? It's not your fault for drawing the attention, or Vanessa's fault for letting him go with Robert. Shit," she runs her hand over her face in frustration. "It's not even Frannie's fault for dumping this mess on me."

"It's _my_ fault, Rachel." Quinn's trembling now, her entire body vibrating with emotion. "Don't you see?" She can't control the tears slipping down her cheeks any more than she can control the cracking of her voice, "_I_ failed him."

She doesn't expect Rachel to actually get on the bed, or for Rachel to throw her arms around her. The unexpected, it seems, is all it takes.

Quinn doesn't even realise she's sobbing until Rachel's breath, so close and warm in her ear. It's okay," she's whispering. "It's going to be okay. It's not your fault, sweetheart. And he's safe. He's safe now. Shhh."

And this time, those words of comfort are anything but useless and Quinn feels her body slowly releasing every ounce of tension and strain she'd been holding on to over the past few hours. Rachel's body is pressed firmly against her back, her arms are tight around her middle, pulling her in, holding her close. Choking sobs eventually become whimpers until it is only Rachel's voice which fills the room. "You're alright," she's saying, gently rubbing circles against Quinn's abdomen. "It's okay now." For the first time in what feels like days, she breathes without that weight on her chest.

Eventually, after what feels like hours, Quinn can't tell, she turns around to face Rachel. So close, the tips of their noses are practically touching.

"I'm sorry," Quinn eventually whispers, her pupils contracting and dilating as she attempts to focus on Rachel's face in the darkened room. Neither of them had bothered with the lights.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Quinn."

Rachel's breath smells sweet and spicy, kind of like she drank chai tea before coming over. "You did nothing wrong."

"I shut you out," Quinn replies softly. "I was angry about…" she swallows and shifts her gaze to the multitude of neon green stars covering the ceiling. "About David, I guess. And I was scared."

"Scared of what?"

"That everyone would see how I failed."

"Quinn-" Rachel's voice goes deeper, filled with emotion. "Sweetheart, you didn't fail anybody. Not me, not Francine and certainly not that little boy who loves you more than anything."

Quinn's open's her mouth to protest, but Rachel continues. "I've never met anyone with such a capacity for love. I've seen it with Max and Beth and even Puck." She pauses before saying, "And I saw it with me, last night."

Quinn's eyes darken. "Rachel, you can't possibly know-"

"But I do." She reaches up and tenderly wipes the remaining moisture off of Quinn's cheek. "I know you, Quinn Fabray. And I love you." There's so much certainty in that statement, that Quinn feels herself completely unravel.

"I think you should head back to New York as soon as the filming is over."

She doesn't mean to say it. She wasn't even actively thinking it, but it's the first thing that slips out of her mouth.

"W-what?" Rachel pulls back slightly and Quinn immediately mourns the loss of heat and _Rachel-ness. _"Why?"

As if to re-establish that connection, Quinn immediately reaches forward and pulls Rachel closer. "I just…I think that maybe we should get some space. To…think." Even as she says it, she knows how lame it sounds.

"Is this about David?" Rachel's voice is trembling, but she's still in Quinn's arms, still holding her gaze. "Because that's over. I told him everything. About you, us. He's…" she releases a breath. "It's you I want."

"It's not about him," Quinn replies softly. "At least, not directly."

"Last night you said-"

"And I meant it," she interrupts. "Rachel, I meant every word."

"Then why…"

"Because you're New York. You're New York and I'm Boston and right now, that's too far apart."

"We can make it work," Rachel sounds desperate now. "I know we can."

"Rach-" she doesn't know what to say. She didn't even know she felt this way until she began speaking and now there's no going back.

"You-you could come with me," Rachel suggests in a voice so small, Quinn almost doesn't hear it.

"Rachel." She sounds pained now, as if it physically pains her to say it. "What about my painting? And the studio? Hector? I-I can't just give that up."

"Then I'll stay. I can commute between here and my apartment in New York and -"

"No!" Quinn sits up against the headboard and fumbles at her side until she finds the lamp switch. Both of them squint as the room is flooded with a soft orange glow. The Mickey Mouse clock on the wall shows 20:06. They've been in the apartment for little more than half an hour. It feels like a lifetime. "It's not…" she practically growls in frustration. God, why does this have to be so hard? "Rachel we always knew this was a tenuous thing. I have my life here and you…you're trying to figure out where the hell you want to be."

"So what? You're saying that we're doomed to fail?" Rachel's voice is trembling as she moves so that she's sitting indian-style, facing Quinn. "Because, what? I don't know what I want? But you see, I do, I know now." Rachel's voice cracks with emotion and frustration. "You're the reason I remembered that person, Quinn. You bring her out. I don't see why I can't have it all. You, Broadway, New York."

"Because it doesn't work like that!" Quinn practically yells, causing Rachel to flinch. "This isn't one of your stupid romantic dramas, Rachel. You can't just sweep into my life for three weeks and expect me to pick up everything and follow you to god knows where!" Quinn is trembling now.

"How can you say these things after-" she waves her arm in the general direction of Quinn's bedroom. "Is giving this up so easy for you?" Quinn doesn't think she's ever heard Rachel sound this vulnerable and it tears her apart. She feels physically ill with it.

"You think this is easy for me, Rach?" She looks at her with wide eyes. "Do you have any idea how-how hard this is?" She pushes the heels of her palms against her eyes for a second, as if that would will away the tears. "God, Rachel, don't you _know_ how much I want you? How much I-" she exhales a shaky breath.

Rachel's practically sobbing now. "So _be_ with me."

Quinn shakes her head and looks away, unable to meet those eyes. "It's not that simple." And suddenly, Quinn can't justify how she ever thought they would work. Her mind flashes back to that cold morning, not two weeks before. Rachel curled up on her lap after a night of confessions and that stolen kiss and she realises that this is all they can have. Surreal moments, pulled from reality, which is really what these past three and a half weeks have been – one long dreamlike moment. Like one of those romance novels she would hide under her pillow during middle school and read voraciously once her parents went to bed. Except in this version, the delicate young ingénue is replaced by a beautiful, tough, slightly insane Hollywood princess and her suitor, well…Quinn doesn't quite know what she'd be classified as, but she does know is that there is no happy ending for these kinds of tales. Not in real-life anyway. Not with her parents, or Frannie and Robert. Not with her and Rory.

"This morning we were talking about commitment," Rachel argues. "You said we'd figure something out. Oh god," she pales suddenly, "Is this because of the pictures? Because of Max?"

"No," Quinn fights the desperate urge to pull her in and just hold her. "No, it's…" Another sigh. "I'm trying to be the adult here."

"Fuck being an adult," Rachel counters viciously. "I don't care about any of that. I just…" She swallows down a sob and waits for Quinn to look at her. "Quinn, I love you."

She can't do this. She can't sit there and watch Rachel hurt and know that she's the cause. But the thought of accepting this, of actually being with Rachel…the irony is that for the longest time, all she wanted was Rachel to herself. She wanted David out of the way so that she could have Rachel completely and selfishly hers. But know that he's gone, now that there is no buffer, no excuse, she's terrified. Terrified that she won't be enough, that she won't ever be able to reconcile their worlds.

"I'm sorry," Quinn whispers, unknowingly echoing Rachel's words to David that morning. "I'm sorry."

She can't look at Rachel. Can't watch as she slowly makes her way out of the room. All she can do is sit on Max's little bed, listening to the shuffle as Rachel packs up her things and prepares to leave. It seems like hours pass before Rachel steps in the light, leaning against the door frame, Quinn finally looks at her, feeling like a coward.

"I understand," Rachel says softly. "I know why you're scared. I am too. But Quinn, I never been this sure of anything, _anything…_in my entire life. That includes when I was ten-years old and Marsha Collins got the lead in My Fair Lady and I knew that I deserved it more because my British accent was way better than hers."

Quinn almost smiles – almost.

"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for." Unexpectedly, Rachel comes into the room and kisses Quinn on the cheek. Her mouth soft and lingering.

And then she's gone.

…

"So wait," Puck is pacing the apartment while Quinn folds up Max's t-shirts and haphazardly tosses them into the 'clean' pile. "You Finned her? Are you insane? Please tell me you didn't use the word 'surrender'. If you did I'm going to puke."

"It wasn't like that," Quinn says, practically gritting her teeth. "It was…mature."

"Bullshiiiit," Puck drawls. "You broke her heart and now-"

"I did _not _break her heart," Quinn counters harshly. "I…set her free," she finishes.

"Oh my god, you Finned her."

"I didn't…" Quinn raises her fingers to form quotation marks, "'Finn' her. And when did we start using that as an adjective anyway?"

"Since that time I got really wasted and Van told you about how I couldn't uh…perform," Puck whispers this part. "And you gave me crap about having a 'Hudson failure'."

"Right." She nods and smirks at him until he says,

"So you admit it was a break-up?"

"No, it was," she sighs. "It was for the best."

"Which is why, for the past few weeks, you've been walking around like someone stole your puppy?"

Quinn scowls at him. "I have not-" She shakes her head in silent frustration. "You know what, Puckerman? I am not going to have this conversation with you."

"Because you know I'm right?"

"Because I'm seconds away from punching you in the face."

Puck grins before ruffling up her hair as if she were a cute five-year old. "Whatever, Fabray. Just do yourself a favour and get over whatever _this_," he waves his hand in front of her face, "is, okay? I just want you to be happy and she makes you happy."

Quinn's about to deny that there's any _this _to get over when the front door opens and a blonde five-year-old tornado comes whirling into the room.

"Quiiiiiiin!" Max bounds onto the bed and in one motion, has his entire body wrapped around Quinn's torso.

"Hey you!" she buries her face in this neck, covering it with ticklish little kisses that makes him giggle and pull away.

"Me and mommy sawed two duckies in the park. And one was yellow and one was bwown."

"Really?" She grins at his enthusiasm. For the past three weeks, they've all been holding on to him as if he were about to disappear at any minute. To Max's credit, to took all the attention in his stride, mostly just loving that his mommy was back to play with him. There's a mild sort of euphoria surrounding their little family unit. A feeling of victory, of celebration. There's a feeling of freedom.

"It took me an hour to convince him that we couldn't take one of them home." Francine comes in behind him, undoing her scarf and pulling off her gloves.

"Can I uh, get you guys some coffee?" Puck looks between the two women uncomfortably and Quinn suppresses the urge to smile. He's perpetually awkward around Frannie, convinced that she's still plotting his murder for deflowering her baby sister.

"That would be wonderful, thank you, Noah."

"Sure," he nods. Max squirms out of Quinn's arms in an attempt to reach Puck. "Puuuuck!" He holds out his arms and Puck takes him and lifts him above his shoulders in a fluid move. "Come on, little dude," he says, walking them both towards the kitchen.

"Maximillian's going to miss him," Frannie comments as she watches her son being thrown up in the air by Puck. She turns to Quinn with a sad smile. "He's going to miss both of you. You did good, Quinn."

"Yeah?" Quinn shrugs. Her sister's praise is foreign and unexpected. "He made it easy."

"There is nothing easy about playing mommy to a five-year old," Frannie counters, absentmindedly picking up one of Max's shirts and folding it into a much neater pile than Quinn's. They complete the activity in silence before Fran tentatively puts her hand on Quinn's shoulder. "Quinnie, I don't blame you for what happened. You know that don't you?"

"Sure," she licks her lips, as if oiling the mechanics before the show, and then smiles a forced, unconvincing smile. "I guess, yeah."

"No, look at me." She drops the t-shirt she's holding and turns to face her sister. "I know I haven't been the best mom-"

"Frannie-"

"No," Fran holds her hand up in protest. "I know I should have handled things better. But you, Quinn, you never failed or lost it, or gave up. You took in my little angel without so much as a-" She quirks the infamous Fabray brow, "Well maybe a bit of a fuss."

Quinn lowers her head. She doesn't feel like she should be getting any tribute and Frannie's grateful words make her uncomfortable. "I'm saying thank you," Frannie says softly. "Let me."

Quinn looks up sharply, straight into her sister's intense gaze and eyes so much like her own. "I'm sorry," she offers up a sheepish smile – genuine this time. "I guess I'm just-"

"Always waiting for the other shoe to drop," Fran finishes for her. "You know, you've been that way ever since you were little. Always waiting to be told that you were wrong, or be exposed as a fraud. One bad thing happens, and you've convinced yourself that you don't deserve to be happy. You're so good at surviving, Quinn."

"I guess that happens when you get an extreme make-over at fourteen." She doesn't mean for it to come off as bitter, but it does.

"You've got to give yourself a break, Quinnie. Stop expecting the worst, stop waiting for the sky to fall." She looks at Quinn meaningfully and says, "Stop pushing the people who love you away."

"Did-"Quinn frowns. "Did Puck say something to you?"

"About the actress?" Quinn blushes despite herself. Something about her sister even mentioning Rachel feels like an infringement of her privacy. But Frannie shakes her head.

"All I had to do was look at you looking at her and I could see it all. And now she's gone and you're walking around the house like someone kicked your puppy-"

"What is it with the puppy metaphors?" Quinn mutters under her breath.

"All I'm saying is," Fran looks down and begins folding up the shirt Quinn dropped a minute ago. "Maybe you're right to think the sky is falling. I look at my life and I certainly can't say for certain that happy ending exist, but if anyone deserves one, Quinnie, it's you."

Quinn swallows and blinks away the unexpected tears that form behind her eyes. "How do you know that Rachel's my happy ending?" she asks softly and Frannie smiles.

"I don't, but do you really want to spend the rest of your life wondering?"

"No," Quinn breathes, more to herself than anyone else. "I guess I don't."

...


	18. Chapter 18

**Because their story deserved to be told and finished…**

**To all of those still here, still caring, thank you for going on this journey with me. xx**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

"A little more to the left!"

He sighs and moves over slightly, making his position on the stepladder just a little more precarious. "I don't know why you don't have one of those mercury bubble straightener things from Home Depot. How's this?"

Rachel takes another step back to assess the tableau before her. Kurt, on a stepladder, holding up an enormous silver frame that still looks just a little… "Kurt, it's still crooked, if you could just-"

She sees it happening in slow motion. Kurt whipping his head back to glare at her, the gentle wobble of the ladder, his high-pitched yelp just before his ass lands on her new wool rug.

"Dammit Rachel!"

"It's perfect!" And it is. Perfectly straight, set against the stark, colour-washed white wall, immediately becoming the focal point of the entire room. The longer she stares at it, the more…centred she feels.

"I'm fine, by the way," Kurt mumbles as she walks over him, her gaze fixed on the canvas. "It's really beautiful, don't you think?"

"Yes." Kurt scrambles up with a huff, vigorously brushing carpet fluff off his jacket. "It's beautiful and spectacular and just about every other adjective you've made me attach to this thing since it got here." He follows her gaze to the painting and sighs. It really is a stunning piece of art. There's some sort of starry theme happening, which he can appreciate. His knowledge of art is limited to the brief fling he had with an aspiring painter-slash-musician who called himself Jon-Luc, spoke with a broad Jersey dialect and smoked 3 packs of Camels a day.

Still, Kurt supposes that if a piece is really good, you'd know right away. And if the way Rachel's mooning over the canvas is any indication, this is up there with Botticelli. Then again, he does notice how her eyes persistently flicker over the scribbled "Q Fabray" in the bottom right-hand corner.

"It's nice," he ventures. "That she sent this to you."

"Yes, well," Rachel takes a step back suddenly, as if aware that she's been caught out. "I did express interest in the piece when I first saw it. I mean, she knew I liked it, so-" she clears her throat and turns to Kurt with a painted on smile. "It was nice of her, yes."

She obviously wants to leave it there. There's a certain desperation in those pretty brown eyes of hers that seems to scream, "Kurt, leave it alone. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about her." It's not like she hasn't actually yelled those words to him a dozen times since she got back from Boston. And he should respect her privacy and her desire to repress. He should, because he's Kurt and she's Rachel and that's exactly why he says, "Are you going to thank her?"

She shrugs tense shoulders. "I haven't thought about it."

He makes a disbelieving noise, the one he knows Rachel hates before turning on his heels and making his way to into the kitchen. 3-2-

"What is that supposed to mean?" Like clockwork, she's storming after him. He doesn't have to turn around to know her hands are fisted at her sides, her face set in that particular scowl.

"What's what supposed to mean?" he asks innocently, pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge.

"That," she waves her hand over his torso. "That 'hmm-mm'. What are you trying to say?"

Kurt sighs and wishes, not for the first time that she wasn't this stubborn. "Rach, it's been four months. Not a word, not a call or a 'Hey, remember that time we had soul-shattering sex and then you left your fiancé and I couldn't commit?' text. And then she sends you a painting with a note less personal than my Great-Aunt Jean's Christmas cards and you haven't thought about contacting her?!" He takes a breath. "Really, Rachel?"

"Kurt," her voice is softer now, calmer and Kurt's eyes narrow. He knows this Rachel. He's mildly terrified of this Rachel. "You don't know what you're talking about, okay?" Her lips curve up into a syrupy smile. "So drop it."

They stare at each other for a moment. Kurt's suspicious, narrowed eyes bore into Rachel's obnoxiously sweet-doe eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" He finally asks.

"I-" Rachel breaks first and looks down. "It's nothing."

"Rachel?"

She makes a frustrated sound before rolling her eyes. "Okay, fine. Fine!" She snatches the bottle from his hand and takes a long swig before indelicately wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and saying, "We've been talking."

Kurt's face crumples in confusion. "You've been talking? With Quinn?"

"Yes," she consents quietly.

"When?"

Rachel shrugs a little weakly. "I don't know. Last night, the night before. It's been going on for a while."

"Define a while." Kurt leans back against the counter top and crosses his arms over his chest.

"She called to wish me luck on the play and then... it just sort of happened, Kurt, I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to tell me why you haven't told me, your best friend about this. God, Rachel. For months I've been worrying about you, wondering why you were holding this all inside."

"No, for months you've been pestering me, coercing me into talking about a problem that didn't exist! Just because your love life is in ruins doesn't mean you get to project that misery onto everyone else!" She's yelling now. She does this when she's angry, or defensive or hurt.

"Well it would have been nice to know that you were okay. That all my worrying, excuse me, _coercing,_ was in vain!" Now Kurt's shouting, because that's something they do. Rachel seems to bring out the yeller in him. One of them will be crying in a minute, if their history is anything to go by, but Rachel instantly deflates and throws her arms around him.

"I know. I know and I'm sorry." Rachel apologising is an anomalous occurrence, one which he would be smart to accept. And so he does, and gently brings his arms around her.

"My love life has been pretty apocalyptic recently." His voice is muffled into her shoulder.

She pulls back and offers him a tearful smile. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did." He shoots her a self-deprecating smile and takes the half-empty water bottle from her hand. "How about we swap this for something with a little more bite?"

"Kurt, it's barely 2pm."

"And your point?" He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and she grins.

"Pour away."

Rachel's laugh, which should actually be defined as a cackle, echoes through the freshly-papered walls of her new West Village brownstone. It's not as grand than her previous place. But it's exactly where she wants it to be and she loves it because it's hers. She tops up her glass and then Kurt's, despite his half-hearted protests.

"So wait, wait," Kurt takes a hearty sip of his Pinot before grinning stupidly at Rachel. "She actually said that you were the reason she realised she was gay?"

"Well, not in so many words, but-" Rachel shrugs.

It feels unbelievably good to talk to Kurt (to anybody really) about Quinn. After Boston, after David, after everything all Rachel wanted to do was sleep for a hundred years. Not because she wasn't fine, because she was. She understood exactly where she and Quinn stood and that was fine. She was just tired. Utterly and excruciatingly tired. She managed to get in a week of sleep and a half before her agent called and told her that she had an "audition" for Michael Mayer's new production. The pro of this was of course working with Mike again, which always shook her world up one way or another. The con was that she'd need to actually get out of her pyjamas for the first time in almost two weeks. Ultimately, ambition won, as it always does, and Rachel showed up for her audition, nailed it and was taken out for lunch by Michael a day later. "The part was practically written for you," he said. "You're the voice in my head when I think about Moira," he said. "Production begins in a month," he said. And so Rachel said yes, and immersed herself in the part and felt more at home on the stage than she did in years. And she didn't speak or think about Boston or David until 10:45 on the night before their preview performance when Quinn called just as Rachel was getting ready for bed.

That first conversation was stilted and strange. They spoke over each other and laughed awkwardly. They didn't mention Rachel's time in Boston or anything related to those few stolen weeks. They spoke, instead about the future. About Rachel's feelings about being back on stage, about Quinn's latest piece. Rachel mentioned wanting to move into a new place and Quinn stated that she always imagined Rachel to be living in some pretty brownstone in the heart of the city. Three and a half weeks later, Rachel was doing just that.

She tells Kurt about most of these conversations. She tells him about Hector and Puck and Vanessa. He laughs when she tells him about Max's antics and cringes when she tells him about Francine's drama. It all comes pouring forth. Her proposition to Quinn, the night she showed up soaked to the bone, their moment in her trailer, her panic attack, waking up next to the most beautiful woman she's ever met. And then she's telling him about their last interaction, the one in Max's bed. And she's halfway through justifying Quinn's decision, because she understands and because Quinn was being an adult and because she can hardly be angry at Quinn for feeling the way she felt and because she's okay, she's fine and -

"Rachel. Honey?"

Rachel looks over at Kurt and the expression on his face says it all.

"I'm really fine," she insists, reaching over for the almost empty bottle of Pinot Noir. But Kurt pulls it out of her reach and scoots closer.

"Rachel, it's okay to be angry with her." Kurt waits until her gaze flits up and meets his. "And it's okay to not be okay."

"But I am," she counters as if it were obvious. "I told you, Kurt-"

"You told me that you said you loved her and she asked you to go. I know you, Rachel, I know what that must have-"

"What are you trying to do?" She gets up, because it's easier to yell when she's standing, but the wine has made her dizzy and she sways slightly. "Why are you saying these things?"

"I just want you to be honest with yourself." Kurt's tone is soft and tentative, but all Rachel hears is condescension.

"No," she points an accusatory finger at him. "No you want me to have some sort of melt down and cry in your arms and talk about how I wish things were different. But you know what?" She takes a breath and scans the room, looking anywhere but Kurt's face. She can't bear to see the pity written there. "I've made my peace with this, Kurt. Things don't always work out the way we envision them. This is one of those things. I know how Quinn feels."

"What about how you feel?"

"It doesn't matter." She shrugs a shoulder and finally looks at Kurt. "It doesn't matter how I feel because," she wishes her voice didn't crack, that those tears didn't blur her vision, she wishes she could be stronger. "Because she doesn't want me. Not like that anyway."

And then she's in Kurt's arms and she's crying and wishing things were different and it's everything she didn't want, but so desperately needed. The muffled words against Kurt's tear-stained shirt seem to resemble "Why doesn't she want me?" and also, "What's wrong with me?" All Kurt does is hold her tightly and let her cry. He's learnt by now that sometimes all you can do is let someone cry.

"I'm okay," she says eventually, and pulls back with a enthusiastic sniff.

"You don't have to be, you know?"

She offers up a watery smile and gently pats her best friend's cheek. "I know, and yeah, it hurts, but I'm dealing." Like a five-year old, she rubs her nose of her sleeve, causing Kurt to roll his eyes and pull a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Here."

Rachel scrunches up her face. "Ew. I'm not using that."

"Oh, because your sleeve is a much more hygienic option." He purses his lips and says, "It's clean, I promise." Then, without warning, Kurt dabs her face with his "clean" tartan hankie and holds it over her nose. "Now blow." And she does.

She's considering whether to use her lavender essential oils or French vanilla bubbles when her phone rings. Kurt left over an hour ago, with the promise of calling to check up on her, so Rachel's in no great hurry to answer. Heart-to-hearts with Kurt are cathartic, but also so very exhausting and the thought of any more conversation for the next few hours is daunting. In fact, she'd be very happy to get out of her bath, turn on her television and lose herself in some god-awful reality show involving money and people with bad grammar for the rest of the evening. She picks up with a distracted 'hello' and nearly drops her phone in the tub when Quinn answers. It's not that the call is completely unexpected, but Quinn's voice always seems to unhinge Rachel slightly. It's warm and intimate and though Rachel knows better, there's always a hint of flirtation laced among the octaves.

"Quinn, hi." She's suddenly conscious of her own voice and wills herself to sound less breathless. But, it's difficult when she can practically hear Quinn smiling and it's like taking a sip of really good whiskey because there's this sudden warmth that seeps through her whole body. "How are you?"

"I'm great." There's a momentary pause before Quinn says, "How are you? I, um… I heard the weather was insane in New York this weekend."

"If by insane you mean horribly humid then yes." Rachel moves out of the steamy bathroom and into her bedroom where she can pace and move, because talking to Quinn makes her restless and she'd rather not be naked in a bath while hearing that breathy voice on the other end of the phone.

"So…" Rachel takes a breath and mentally prepares herself for an hour of talking about everything but the one thing she actually wants to talk about and wills herself to enjoy the fact that she's talking to Quinn at all. "… How did your showing go?"

"Stupid, cowardly, ridiculous, stupid-"

"You said that already." Puck squeezes another sheet of bubble wrap in his fist and smiles at the satisfying pop that fills the nearly empty apartment.

"That's because it's true. I'm all of those things. Twice." Quinn flops down onto the couch with a veritable grunt of defeat. "Why is this so hard?"

Puck tosses his sad, deflated ball of plastic across the table before joining her on the couch. "Relax, okay? You've still got like a week before-"

"That's just it!" Quinn's vaguely aware that her voice has just gone three octaves higher. "I've spoken to her two dozen times since she left. I've had plenty of opportunities to say something and yet…" she throws her hands up in the air. "I'm a wuss."

"You're not a wuss." She aims a disbelieving look at him and Puck concedes, "Okay, maybe when it comes to Berry, you're a little bit of a wuss."

She makes a sound that is meant to convey her frustration with him and herself and the universe in general. "I miss Max. He didn't judge my inability to be functionally emotional human being." She sighs, "He just wanted my snuggles."

"It has been depressingly quiet since the little guy left. Can't say I miss your sister though. She terrifies me."

"I just want to go back, you now? Back to that moment when she was in my bed and everything was okay."

"Francine was in your bed?"

Quinn wonders if it's possible to eyeroll hard enough to strain one's muscles. "No, genius. Rachel. I just don't know how to start that conversation with her."

"The one where you tell her you were a dick for letting her go and you're moving to-"

"Yes, Puckerman," she shoots him a glare. "_That_ conversation."

"So don't tell her." He looks proud of himself as he leans back against their tatty but comfortable old couch and says, "Show her. Do something that she can't ignore. You're always going on about actions versus words and all of that crap."

Quinn's about to dismiss his suggestion, because how could she possibly _show_ Rachel how she feels if she can barely move beyond discussing the weather? But then Puck's words actually begin to make sense and the tentative beginnings of an idea begin to take root and suddenly, Quinn doesn't feel quite so inept.

"You know what?" Quinn smiles brightly and turns to Puck. "You're absolutely right."

If he's at all perturbed by her sudden change of tone, he doesn't show it. Years of living with Quinn Fabray, has taught him to expect the unexpected. "Of course I am." Quinn surprises him further by leaning into him and laying her head on his shoulder.

"Thanks," she finally says. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She's being mildly sarcastic, but even so, expects some quip, some line about how of course she couldn't live without him, but there's nothing, only the subtle, rhythmic rise and fall of Puck's chest. Eventually, she tilts her head up to look at him. Her position means she can only really see his profile, but even at this angle; she can make out his frown. "Heeey," she sings it out and pokes her finger into his arm. "Why the sulk?"

He looks at her for a moment as if debating whether to speak or not and Quinn feels his body tense up before he says, "I'm gonna miss this place." And then, more quietly, "Gonna miss _you_."

"What's this all about?" she sits up to face him and Puck just shrugs as if he's embarrassed.

"Noah?" She rarely, if ever uses his first name. She's never really thought it suited him. But it has the desired effect and he sighs and finally looks at her. "I dunno. I guess I've just been thinking about these last few years. About us."

"Us?" Her immediate inclination is to raise her brow, that impetuous brow, and lightly scoff at the idea of her and Puck being an "us". But the look on his face is so achingly sincere, that she bites back the snark and scoots even closer to him.

"Yeah." Puck clears his throat. "You and me and like, this place. I mean, I lived with my mom and Sarah most of my life you know? But Lima never really felt like home. It was like this weird juvie I spent years trying to break out of."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Quinn gives him a half-smile of sympathy, because for a long time, Lima felt like her personal prison, one where she was sentenced to stay for her multitude of sins.

"So like, when me and you moved in here, I guess it became everything that Ohio wasn't. For the first time in my life, I felt free and I wasn't a screw-up. Or so much of a screw-up." He rubs his hand over his head before shaking it. "I got to make things right, you know? With you and," Puck's gaze falters, "-and with Beth. And we're good together. This thing we have-"

Quinn's heart begins a heavy, nervous thud, because surely, _surely_ he's not saying what she thinks he's saying. "Puck, where is this going?"

"You're my family." He looks back to her, all vulnerability and nervousness. "And I don't want that to change. I mean, with the move and the baby-"

Quinn's suddenly confused. "Wait, wait, wait. What baby?" This was _not _the direction she had anticipated this conversation would go.

Despite his strangely coy demeanour, Puck's face lights up as he says, "Van's pregnant. We're gonna have a kid."

To say that she didn't see this coming would be an understatement. It's not that she's not happy for Puck, because she is, she totally is. Except that for the longest time, he was hers, her… baby-daddy for lack of a better term. The whole having a kid thing was their thing. And she never thought she'd be particularly possessive about having a 'thing' with Noah Puckerman, but there it is.

"Puck, that's…" she musters a smile, "That's great! I'm really happy for you. Really." Except her "happy" face must have sort of resembled her pained face, because Puck's fragile, hopeful expression fades as he says, "Look, Quinn, the only reason I'm going to be any good at this, the only reason I didn't shit myself when Van told me, was cause of you."

She huffs in amusement despite herself. "Thanks?"

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Okay, that came out wrong. What I meant was," he reaches down to take both of her hands in his. "You'll always be my first babymama." She laughs and rolls her eyes and hopes he doesn't see the tears welling up in them. "You're my family. And no matter what happens, that'll never change."

She swallows back a sort-of sob, but those tears end up on her cheeks anyway. "That kid is going to be so loved." She squeezes his hands and smiles, genuinely this time. "You're gonna be _great_ at this."

"I might need you around to remind me of that at times."

"Consider it done."

They continue to smile at each other until it borders on creepy and Puck says, "So, uh, Van might want to tell you again when she asks about the godmother gig, and you'll have to act all surprised and shit."

Quinn instantly lights up. "You guys want me to be the godmother?"

He looks at her as if it were obvious. "What, you thought we'd ask Bas?"

She snorts at the image of Bas holding a baby. "No, I just… I'm really honoured."

"Yeah, well try to contain some of that excitement for Vanessa. She's been kind of… fragile lately. Hormones, you know?"

"I do." Quinn's expression goes deadpan and he looks sheepish.

"I think she's worried about being on tour and being pregnant, but I told her that musicians do it all the time. I mean, look at Beyonce and like… Madonna. They totally rock the MILF look. That's before Madonna got all spider-arms and scary cheek bones. But she's still like do-able."

Quinn makes a face. "Aaand just like that, this conversation just got uncomfortable."

"Speaking of uncomfortable," Puck winks and says, "Any idea about how to get you back under Rachel Berry's radar? And by radar, I mean-"

She holds her hand up in a desperate attempt to derail that sentence, despite the fact that he's now making hand gestures. "Yes, okay, I know what you meant."

"So?" he wriggles his brows playfully. "Cause I was thinking-"

"Then I'll save you the trouble." Quinn lets out a deep breath and says, "I have a plan. Maybe."

Rachel awakes slowly and in a significant amount of confusion. It takes her a few seconds to orientate herself and realise that there is not in fact a tiny Asian man standing in the corner of the room playing the triangle and the annoying ringing that persists is actually her phone. The generic ring indicates that the caller is not a known contact, so Rachel scrambles out of bed, cursing the fact that she left her phone on the dining room table and curious as to the identity of her mystery caller.

She barely makes it to swipe her screen and breathe out a measured, "Hello, this is Rachel Berry."

Rachel's not sure what she expected, but Noah Puckerman's voice was not it.

"Ray. Chel. Berry." She can just about imagine Puck's libidinous grin that always seems to accompany that specific drawl. "What's up, sugar lips?" Her eyes flick to the stainless steel cat-shaped clock on the wall.

"Noah, it's 1:46am. Not that I'm not happy to hear your voice, but what is this about?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about the time, we just finished up a gig and I wasn't really-" he sounds sort of frazzled and Rachel's heart begins to pound in that specific way that accompanies worry.

"Puck, is everything okay? Is Quinn-"

"Nah. Q's uh, she's fine." There's a loud crash in the background, followed by indistinguishable whispers before Puck eventually says "I was actually calling about something else."

"Okaaay."

"The thing is, we just got a gig in the city and -"

Rachel's eyes are still heavy and her brain all fuzzy. "New York City?"

"The one and only." Another crash. "Hey sorry. We're in Connecticut and it's pretty intense."

"I bet." She yawns loudly. "Listen, Noah, I am sincerely happy about the performance, but can we do this another time? I've got to be up at five tomorrow for this big Allure photoshoot and-"

"Yeah, no problem, look," there's a pause before he says, "Can you like, try to come to our gig though?" Puck actually sounds embarrassed, which Rachel finds strangely endearing, despite the fact that it's almost 2am and she's supposed to be up in three hours for a photo-shoot at seven. "It's really important to… Bas. You know how he is. And Van's really looking forward to seeing you. You know, she never really got a chance to see you after everything went down. And you're like my number one Jew after JC, so-"

"When?"

"Hmmm?" He sounds surprised, like he wasn't expecting her to give in so easily.

Rachel sighs again. Loudly. "When, Noah? When is your gig?"

"Friday."

"The day after tomorrow?"

"That's it."

She wants to say no. Based on her schedule, she _should _say no. And, if she's being really honest with herself, she's not sure if she wants to see Puck or anyone that reminds her of Boston. At the same time, she's aware that in a weird way, he's the closest tether to Quinn and there's a chance that –

She sucks in a breath before, "So, is um, Joe back with you guys? I mean, he's… back?" The minute it's out there, she knows how lame it sounds.

"Yeah," Puck's voice goes soft. "Yeah, Joe's on bass. She's not…" He pauses before saying, "She's got work, you know?"

"No, I get it," she cuts him off before he can say more. She really doesn't want to discuss Quinn with Puck right now. "Okay, give me the details and I'll be there."

"Sweet." There's a definite hint of relief in Pucks voice as he says, "So there's this gallery opening in SoHo…

Kurt waves his hand in front of his face in an exaggerated gesture as he glides into Rachel's bedroom, looking suave as ever. "Good lord, Rachel, how much of this stuff did you spray on?"

She sticks her head out of her gigantic walk-in closet. "Do you like it? Philip sent over the samples yesterday. This is my favourite."

He sniffs the air like a twitchy-nosed bunny-rabbit. "I do like the raspberry tones, and also," Kurt takes another hearty sniff. "What is that? Is that… pineapple?"

Rachel comes out with her unzipped back facing Kurt. "Yeah, it's great, right? We're thinking of calling it Summer Berry."

"It _is_ interesting," he says, zipping her up with ease. Her cocktail dress fits like a pretty, plum-coloured glove.

"Tell me again," Kurt starts as she walks past him. "How did Noah Puckerman's garage band end up playing at a black tie event in Soho?"

"It's not a garage band!" Rachel calls out from the bathroom, surprised that she's actually offended by Kurt's suggestion. "They're really good! And it's a gallery opening, so don't expect too much."

She musses up her hair a little and stands back to observe the finished product. "You know, you just missed Chad. He and Eva left just a few minutes ago."

"You had your make-up artists come in for this gig?" Kurt sounds scandalised, but he's not really. He's seen Rachel do full make-up for the gym at times. He'd never tell her this, but he thinks it has something to do with the fact that deep down, she still felt the need to prove herself to the outside, prove that she was more than a sexless high-school girl in knee-high socks and tartan.

"No," Rachel has the decency to sound indignant and she walks back in. "They were in the neighbourhood and I mentioned that I was going out tonight, so…" she waves a finger at her face. "This happened." She waits until Kurt's done mocking before she says, "Chad's single by the way. He and Henri called it quits." She smiles slightly and adds, "He asked about you."

"Hmm," Kurt raises his chin and attempts to look disinterested. "What did he say exactly?"

"You know…" Rachel bends down to sling her shoe strap over her heel. "I just can't remember." She shots him a devilish look. "But I _know_ you have his number, so you could always call him up."

Kurt makes a non-committal sound. "Let's just focus on your love life for now, shall we?"

Rachel straightens up and frowns at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Kurt answers quickly. "I just imagine that yours is more salvageable than mine."

Rachel scoffs. "Salvageable? Have you heard anything I've said in the last few weeks?"

He gives her a gentle smile and runs his fingers through her hair for good measure. "Come on gorgeous, we don't want to be late."

She's surprised that she actually likes the venue. There's a new gallery opening in Soho every three seconds. Some of them are great, most of them are awful. She'd like to think that all of those vacations she spent in Europe with her parents rather than attending all the cool kid parties she was never invited to anyway paid off. The gallery itself is a typical loft, with the first floor barely bigger than her living room, but it's intimate and beautifully lit and surprisingly crowded. She can hardly see the pieces lining the walls, but the few sculptures her eyes land on are gorgeous, and not for the first time, Rachel wonders who the owner is.

"This. Is. Stunning!" Kurt bumps hips with her and Rachel grins, and not just because of the camera flash that just went off. It truly is. She's glad Puck convinced her to make this appearance. She's barely given thought to her social life since her break-up with David. It became an unspoken rule that he got custody of their "couple" friends, most of whom have labelled her "the vicious cheating bitch", which she's fine with, because she's got Kurt and her old NYADA crowd and in a way, she's got Quinn, which, whether she wants it to or not, seems to be the only thing that matters.

There's a little stage set up in one corner, but the band are nowhere in sight. Kurt's eyes flit across the room as if he's looking for something. "Shall I get us a drink?"

"Yes, anything is fine." Rachel finds herself momentarily distracted by a specific piece in the far corner of the room.

"Coming right up."

Rachel shuffles past a menagerie of sparkly people holding sparkly drinks. She catches snippets of pretentious conversation and sees an industry-person or two among the glitter. It's all very typical and in a way, comforting, and yet, she's unreasonably unsettled. It's like that moment when you wake from a dream, only you're still dreaming and the second time you wake, everything feels just slightly off-kilter. It takes her a moment to realise that the paintings around her are vaguely familiar.

She's almost certain she hasn't actually seen them before, but something about the artist's strokes, their use of colour and depth, something about the pieces resonates with her. She's about to nudge past the other observers and take a closer look, when a voice on the microphone catches her attention. She turns to face the stage and finds herself taken aback at the image of Noah Puckerman, dressed in black and looking outrageously attractive. He searches the crowd until he finally finds Rachel's beaming face and darn it if she doesn't get a flutter or two in her belly when he pulls out that signature smirk. The rest of the band appears from behind him, all looking particularly dashing and Rachel can't help the bubble of disappointment that wells up inside when a cleaned-up Joe steps out from behind Bas.

Puck clears his throat before saying, "We _are_ Boston Specific and very happy to be playing in New York tonight." There's a tremor of applause through the crowd, though with true New York nonchalance, most people are perfectly content to carry on their conversations and sip their drinks and peruse the art. "Before we play our first song, I'd like to thank Mr Diaz for the invitation to play the opening of this outstanding gallery." Puck extends his arm and winks at somebody at the make-shift bar. "You're the real deal, man. Boston represent." A few people whoop and Rachel follows Puck's gaze. Standing at the bar, next to Kurt and a shorter gentleman who looks suspiciously familiar, is Hector. Hector Diaz.

Quinn's boss.

The band begins to play and Rachel feels dizzy. The Mahjong tiles of thought in her head are struggling to fit together and make sense. If Hector is Mr Diaz, then this is Hector's gallery, and if this is Hector's gallery…

Rachel begins to walk with purpose towards the bar, where she watches Kurt duck and expertly gets lost in the sea of people between him and Rachel. She's going to get answers about this, one way or –

And then she sees it. _Really_ sees it. The same painting that caught her eye earlier. The painting that isn't really a painting at all, but a sketch.

A sketch of her.

It's not obvious. In fact, it's just a body. The artist left the face vague and obscure. But she more than recognises it, she's overcome by the memory of it. Lying on Quinn's bed, the feeling of Quinn's eyes sliding over every curve, every freckle, every dip and flare. And it's all there, on canvas. Raw and exposed and overwhelmingly beautiful.

"It's called _What I Couldn't Find_."

Quinn brushes past Rachel and points to the title on the small white plaque below the sketch. "See?"

There are moments that stay with you until you die. Moments that become the stories you tell your children and grandchildren, moments that become so threaded into your personal mythology they are inseparable from your very identity. Rachel instantly knows that this is one of those moments.

She sucks in a breath and turns around to find Quinn. Quinn who called her derogatory names in freshman year. Quinn who offered to duet with her in an attempt to sabotage Glee Nationals. Quinn who kissed her under a tree and left her breathless. Quinn who touched her in places she'd never even touched herself and told her that she was _everything_.

"Quinn."

"Hi. Rachel." There's definite pause between these two words. As if they mean two distinct things. And there's that smile. That smile that transforms Quinn's entire face and makes you feel like you're the only person in the entire universe who's ever been on the receiving end of such adoration.

"You're here." Rachel's gaze sweeps up and down the vision that is Quinn Fabray. In a tailored double-breasted suit that accentuates all of her qualities, and hair, a little longer than Rachel remembers, tousled and just brushing her shoulders, she's like a 1920's mobster-slash-runway model. It's all very much for Rachel to take in. "Why," she lets out a breath she didn't realise she was holding. "Why _are_ you here?"

"I'm… working," Quinn says simply, her eyes never leaving Rachel's face, as if she were soaking in every feature, every pore and freckle. "It wouldn't look very good for the assistant gallery director to be absent from said gallery's opening, now would it?" There's a sparkle of delight in Quinn's eyes as she watches Rachel work through the logic.

"You work _here_?" Rachel emphasizes the last word as if it is of great importance. Because when it boils down to it, it is. "How?"

"Hector." Quinn inclines her head towards the man at the bar, with his partner whom Rachel now recognises from her night at Quinn's art function. "He's been wanting to open up his own gallery for a long time and-"

"And he decided to open it in New York?!" Rachel's heart is pounding, but she doesn't want to hope, not yet, not when there's suddenly so much to lose.

"Well," Quinn's lower lip finds itself caught between her teeth as she debates how to answer. "He wanted me on board. The gallery, it was something we had always talked about and… he wanted me to be part of it. And when I told him I was coming to New York, it seemed to make sense that we'd open it here. I mean, Paul's from here and he's always wanted Theo to grow up in this city so I can't take all the credit."

"You were-" The behind them, Bas goes at it on a drum solo and Rachel has to speak up. "You were moving here?" She needs to know. She needs Quinn to say it. "Why?"

Quinn reaches out and it's like slow motion. Like the end of those terrible but wonderful eighties rom-coms when everything has a synthesized backing track. She gently tucks an errant curl behind Rachel's ear and says, "So that we'd finally be in the same orbit." Quinn shrugs shyly. "I thought telling you like this would be romantic. In retrospect it might be-"

"Perfect." Rachel turns back to the sketch. "How did you finish it? I know it wasn't done when we, when I left."

"Imagination," Quinn says from behind her. "Memory." Rachel feels the bloom of warmth on her cheeks.

"This one is for all the lovers," Puck's voice reaches them as if from very far away and it's only until Rachel hears her own name, that she's snapped out of the trance. "Thanks for coming tonight, Rachel." The entire band is staring at her from stage, causing a number of people in the audience to turn and face them.

There's a whoop from the bar and they both turn in time to see Kurt and Hector clink glasses.

Rachel's genuinely stunned. She had no idea Kurt was in on any of it. "That sonofa-"

"Hey," Quinn's suddenly a centimetre closer and all intelligent thought leaves Rachel's head. "They're playing our song." It's not really their song, or any song that Rachel has heard before. In fact, she suspects it may be a Boston Specific original. But it's sweet and sexy and Vanessa's breathy tones filter through the room, warming it up even more. Quinn holds out a hand. "Would you like to dance, Rachel?"

"Have you always been this cheesy?" Rachel accepts Quinn's hand and they walk to the middle of the room, where only one other couple is swaying rhythmlessly.

Quinn's palm snakes its way down Rachel's back until it finds a home and she fits their bodies together. "Says the woman who wanted "Wind Beneath My Wings" as her wedding song."

"Quinn!" Rachel clucks her tongue. "I told you that in confidence."

"And, I'm confidently mocking you."

"You don't get to mock me," she says it lightly, but the pain is there, clear and present in those expressive brown eyes. Rachel unconsciously grips Quinn even tighter, as if to anchor herself against what she's about to say, "You hurt me." It's a whisper and barely audible above the band, but Quinn hears nothing else.

"I know." She makes sure that Rachel's looking at her, that they're truly connecting before she says, "And I'm so sorry. And there is no excuse except… that I was scared." She shrugs her shoulders and suddenly, Rachel sees that sixteen year old girl, alone in the world, waiting for the other shoe to drop, to be displaced yet again. "I was scared." They're swaying out of time to the music, but neither notices, nor cares.

"I get scared too," Rachel admits softly.

"You just seem so sure of everything," Quinn counters. "Like you've got it all figured out."

Rachel actually laughs. "Do you remember anything about those three weeks in Boston?" Quinn raises her brow with a wry smile and Rachel laughs again. "My life was a mess. Most of the time, it still is. I'm hardly sure about anything, Quinn." She takes a breath before saying, "Except this." Her eyes flicker between their bodies. "This I am sure of."

Quinn searches Rachel's face, for a moment, as if the answers were there, written between her brows until finally, she presses her lips against Rachel's temple and sighs. "Then I'm sure too."

It's a fragile kind of moment, one that is both separate from and dependent on their surroundings. Rachel feels Quinn's body sort of deflate and mould into hers. Then they're swaying and there is no gallery, no band, no time at all.

Eventually the song ends, as songs are wont to do and Rachel steps away, but Quinn holds her close. "One more," she whispers and Rachel happily obliges.

Halfway through Vanessa's rendition of "Summertime", Rachel asks, "How's Max?" Because suddenly, being in the same room with Quinn and Puck and even Vanessa seems strange without the tiny tot zipping around.

"He's great." Rachel thinks it's amazing and endearing how Quinn's entire face animates at the mention of her nephew. "He and Frannie are back with my mom, so-" she shakes her head with a slightly concerned laugh as if the thought is just occurring to her, "I guess he'll grow up to be a Lima kid."

Rachel offers up a wry look. "There are worse things than being a Lima kid."

"There are?"

"We turned out okay."

Quinn's arched brow makes an appearance and Rachel smiles. "Sort of okay. I mean, we made it in the end, didn't we?"

"I don't know," Quinn suddenly twirls her and Rachel laughs. Really laughs. Like she hasn't laughed in months. "I guess we'll know 'in the end'," Quinn says, pulling her back in. "Right now, I'm kinda focused on the "here" of it all."

"Good," Rachel answers, slipping her arm back around Quinn's waist."Because I like it here."

**FIN.**


End file.
